


Neighbors, Part 2

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Series: Neighbors [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe _ Neighbors, Bitty manages a bakery, Coming Out, Jack's an NHL veteran, M/M, being outed, they figure out how to be together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-14 09:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9173956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Eric and Jack are boyfriends, but still not together as often as they like. They have to learn to understand each other and to make their relationship work.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This continues "Neighbors." If you haven't read it, please do! But if you don't want to, know that Jack and Bitty live on the same floor of a Providence apartment building. Jack has been in the NHL for about 8-9 years; Bitty is a recent college grad managing a bakery for an owner who also owns two bakeries in Boston, and he is facing a rent increase as his sublet runs out.  
> Not beta'd, so I will send you virtual cookies if you let me know about anything that needs to be fixed (probably real cookies if you give me your mailing address).  
> All thanks to Ngozi for creating these lovely characters.

Eric pushed his sleeves up before pulling the tray of mini-loaves out of the oven.

“Chowder,” he called, “are we open yet?”

“Just turned the sign and unlocked the door,” Chowder said, poking his head into the kitchen. “You look tired today. Want some coffee?”

“I had some already,” Eric said, nodding at the small drip coffeemaker he used first thing in the morning.

“I meant some of the good stuff,” Chowder said. “Because no offense, but you look like you still need to wake up.”

“Ever notice how ‘no offence’ nearly always comes before something offensive?” Eric mused. “But sure, one more cup won’t hurt.”

Chowder brought Eric the coffee -- with liberal portions of cream and sugar -- while he packaged orders and then went to remove the slightly cooled loaves from their pans. Eric could hear the steady jingling of the bell over the front door as their early morning regulars came in and left with their coffee and baked goods, helped along by Chowder’s cheerful greetings.

Eric stacked the labeled boxes, tied them with string from the spool on the counter and put them in the cooler for later pick-ups. Then he put the mini-loaves (today a dense, sweet cinnamon sourdough bread) on a tray for the display case and headed out front to give Chowder a hand.

“Two cranberry bran muffins and coffee with cream and sugar to go,” Chowder told him, barely looking up to acknowledge Eric’s presence behind the counter. There was a line four deep already.

So Eric listened to the orders as Chowder relayed them, doing his best to plate the ones that would be eaten in the bakery attractively, carefully wrapping those that were to go. By 8:30, there was no line and only a handful of people at the scattered tables, finishing up their breakfasts. Most of them would be gone within 15 minutes, off to work or school or wherever they went during the day.

After that, Eric knew, customers would come in sporadically. Students would buy a cup of coffee and maybe a piece of pie and stay for hours. Mothers with toddlers and babies would stop for a treat on their way home from their various Mommy and Me classes or on their way to outings in the park. Eric would get more baking done, prepare orders for suppliers and watch the front of the bakery when Chris had his break. Dex would be in by 12:30, and Chris would be gone by 1. It was a system that worked -- barely. If the business was going to grow in some of the ways Eric had suggested in last night’s email to Matthew, they would have to invest in more help. Which might make it harder for Eric to get the raise he needed.

Eric stood behind the counter thinking about the conundrum, absently watching Chowder wipe down tables and stack the dirty dishes in a bin to take them back to the kitchen.

“You want me to do these, Bitty?” he asked.

Before Eric could answer, the bell on the door chimed and Matthew walked in.

He looked like his usual comfortable self, neat and clean in a button-down and dark-wash jeans. His hair was neatly combed, and his step was easy and light.

Of course, Matthew hadn’t been at work for four hours already, after a night of interrupted sleep worrying about the email he had sent the day before, declaring that he was due a raise. Eric had run the email by Jack before sending it; Jack hadn’t thought it was too strong -- he wanted Eric to make it stronger. But Eric couldn’t help feeling that Matthew would take offense and tell him his services were no longer needed.

Maybe that was why he was here now. Although really, Eric had expected a return email, or even a phone call, not a personal visit. 

What Eric wanted to say was, “What are you doing here? Are you here to fire me?”

What he said was, “Matthew! I wasn’t expecting you today. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I got your email yesterday, and I looked at your numbers, and I wanted to come and see what’s working so well for you,” Matthew said. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Uh, sure, we can talk while I load up the dishwasher,” Eric said. “Chris can watch the register. Chris, I'll take those back."

In the back, Eric tied an apron on and started arranging plates and cups in the dishwasher’s basket.

“So, what do you want to know?” Eric asked when Matthew settled against the counter. “Be careful you don’t get flour on your clothes.”

“Oh, um, yeah,” Matthew said and straightened up. “Well, it seems slow now, but judging by that load of dishes, you were busy this morning. Is that usual?”

“Yes, most mornings we’re busy, but the rush ends before 9,” Eric said. “We make sure to keep the coffee fresh and have a good selection of things that aren’t really desserts. We switch to more dessert foods about now, but still have some savory things for people who come at lunch time and don’t want to have to make two stops.”

“You get a rush at lunch too?”

“Not like in the morning, but yes, we’re busier from about 11:30 to 1,” Eric said. “In between, we get more baking done, and we try to get people to come in pick up cakes and pies they ordered when we’re slower.”

“You seem to be doing more of those orders, too,” Matt said.

“There has been an increase,” Eric agreed. “Especially with the pies. I think we’re about to get a couple of bigger orders too.”

“From where?”

“The Falconers are having a breakfast for people who donate to their charities, and they said they’d be needing about 12 dozen assorted muffins and pastries,” Eric said. “And Sebastien St. Martin has his own foundation that’s doing an event next month. They called about getting desserts from us -- he wants eight pies and a bunch of cupcakes. Neither of those is for sure yet -- we don’t have signed contracts -- but I don’t think they’re talking to anyone else.”

“The Falconers? How’d you get in with them?” Matthew asked. “If their donors like our food, we could get more catering business.”

“Um, one of their players lives in my building,” Eric said. “On my floor, actually.”

“Way to use your connections,” Matthew said. “I have to say, I’m impressed.”

“The thing is, this bakery is doing much more business than when I started,” Eric said. “So like I said, I think I deserve a raise. But I also think we’re going to need at least one more part-timer, maybe two sometimes, to help with the catering work.”

“Yes, you asked for a raise in your email,” Matthew said. “You want another $100 a week? How about $80, and 5 percent of any catering order you sell over $100? You could do better that way, if the catering takes off.”

Eric plastered a considering look on his face, while he kicked himself mentally for not asking for more. If Matthew had agreed to $80 a week that easily, could Eric have gotten more? Too late now, and the orders from the Falconers and Marty would be a few hundred dollars each. If Eric started promoting catering more, he could do this.

“OK,” he said. “I can do that. Want a piece of pie before you go?”

******************

Jack found a text from Eric as soon as he got off the ice for morning skate in Charlotte.

_He said yes! I got a raise!_

Jack texted back, _Congratulations! I’ll call you when I get back to the room._

He was a little surprised, not that Eric got the raise, but that it was so fast. He was pretty sure Eric hadn’t emailed the bakery owner until the previous evening. Still, even though Eric had only been there six months, it was clear that he was the heart and soul of Sugar ‘n’ Spice. Keeping him, and keeping him happy, should be the owner’s first priority.

Jack headed back to the room while Tater was at lunch to call Eric. He let Eric’s voice wash over him while he picked out the details of what happened. Matthew had responded to the letter by showing up in person (“Lord, Jack, I was afraid was in trouble!”), spent time asking about the business, then agreed to a slightly smaller raise than Eric asked for (“I think maybe you were right, I should have asked for more”), along with a new possibility of a small commission.

He’d also asked Eric to visit his two bakeries in Boston once a month, both to teach the staff there some of the new recipes he’d introduced and share some of his business ideas with their managers, and reminded him not to forget the social media sites.

Privately, Jack thought that Matthew had shown up unannounced precisely to make Eric feel flustered, and it might have worked for a moment. But Jack knew that once Eric started talking about the bakery, he’d be fine. And of course he should have asked for more money. Jack and Eric might not have spent too much time together yet, but he was fairly certain that Eric had a habit of seriously underestimating his value.

Ah, well. It seemed like he had gotten most of what he wanted, along with a side of added responsibility.

“Congratulations, Eric,” Jack said, his voice warm with sincerity. “It can be hard to ask for a raise. But you’re worth it to Sugar ‘n’ Spice. You’re the reason people go there.”

Eric giggled into the phone.

“I’m the reason _you_ come here, Mr. Zimmermann,” he said. “I think everyone else comes for the food, or maybe for Chowder. He works the counter most mornings.”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “But you’re in charge of the food, and you put Chowder on the register, and you make the place feel comfortable.”

“Jack, you’re making me blush,” Eric protested. “I seriously look like a tomato right now. But thank you.”

“What does this mean for your apartment?” Jack asked.

“Well, I could afford the increased rent,” Eric said. “Sort of. I mean, it will still be a little more than half of what I bring home, but I don’t have a lot of other expenses. But there’s still no way I can come up with a security deposit and the last month’s rent too.”

“I could always lend --”

“No, Jack,” Eric said, not laughing anymore. “If we’re going to do this -- be boyfriends -- I really can’t start by owing you money.”

“OK,” Jack said. “But I would lend you the money even if we weren’t dating. I know you well enough to know you’re a good risk. What if we could convince the management to give you more time to come up with the deposit and the last month’s rent?”

“Why would they do that?” Eric said.

“Because then they wouldn’t have to go to the trouble and risk of finding a new tenant,” Jack said. “No advertising, no credit checks, no repainting and carpet cleaning. No worries about moving someone in who’s going to make a lot of noise and disturb the other tenants. I mean, you’re usually in bed by 9 p.m.”

“Ten,” Eric said. “But I see your point. Still, what guarantee would they have that I wouldn’t trash the place and move out?”

“Is that what you’re going to do?” Jack said. 

“Of course not,” Eric said. “But they don’t know that.”

“But I do,” Jack said. “What if, instead of lending you the money, we get them to give you more time -- maybe another six months -- to come up with it? I’ll guarantee it for those six months. You know and I know it won’t cost me anything, because you’re not going to move out, and they won’t have to worry.”

“I don’t know. You’re still putting your money on the line for me,” Eric said.

“But I think it’s a good risk, and I would if you were still just my neighbor,” Jack said.

“And who’s to say they’ll agree to it?” Eric asked.

“We’ll never know unless you try,” Jack said. “But I would recommend bringing a pie to the meeting.”

Eric huffed -- was Jack wrong to think it sounded fond? -- and said, “Fine. Are you home at all next week? If we’re going to do this, it has to be soon.”

******************************

Eric stayed late at the bakery the night before Jack was to return to bake him a special welcome home pie.

He wished he could greet Jack with dinner, but Jack wouldn’t be home until the wee hours of the morning. Breakfast wouldn’t work because by the time Jack got up, Eric would be well into his shift. So he would settle for the pie, and a fresh loaf of whole-grain bread for his sandwiches this week.

There also were about a dozen portioned meals in Jack’s freezer, made from recipes Eric tweaked after interrogating Jack about his nutrition plan.

But he still wished he could make him dinner.

The thing was, being Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend, at least for two weeks so far, didn’t mean spending very much time with Jack Zimmermann.

They’d spent the night together that first time, and only once since. In some ways, Eric told himself, it was good that he wasn’t losing too much of his life too fast. Between Jack having late games at home and road trips for days at a time, and Eric’s early schedule at the bakery, it just made more sense for Eric to sleep in his own bed most of the time. That way Jack didn’t wake him when he came in late, and Eric didn’t wake Jack when he got up at 4:15.

They did find time to see each other in the late afternoon most days Jack was home, but often it was just a quick cup of coffee (for Eric) and non-caffeinated herbal tea (for Jack). Eric had been back to skate twice at the Falconers’ practice facility, but more often than not, he ended up at Meehan with Lardo.

Well, he’d finish this pie and leave it in Jack’s kitchen where he’d see it when he came in. He supposed he could have just brought supplies and baked it in Jack’s kitchen -- Eric had honestly seen more of the kitchen than Jack -- but it was just easier to do it where he knew he had all the supplies he needed.

He’d bake another pie tomorrow morning for Meaghan, the building manager. He’d told Dex he was going to leave a little early tomorrow so he and Jack could meet with her. He hoped it worked, although he still felt a little funny about letting Jack guarantee the deposit. In the end, he supposed, it would be all right, because Jack wasn’t going to have to pay anything, but he really wanted to meet him on as equal of a footing as he could.

The fact that he knew roughly what Jack’s salary was didn’t help. It wasn’t like he had gone snooping; it was kind of hard to avoid when it was on the front page of the Providence Journal’s sports section. Making seven figures meant that Jack really wouldn’t miss the $2,800 he was guaranteeing even if he had to pay it, but it also made it hard for Eric to see himself as on the same level of anything as Jack.

Except cooking and baking. There, he was definitely a couple of levels up, he thought as he pulled the perfect maple apple pie from the oven.

*********************

Jack stood at the elevator, waiting for the doors to open, thinking back to the first time he saw Eric months ago.

Eric with his pink cheeks and sleepy eyes, still waking up as he headed out to the bakery. Jack had been drawn in from that first encounter, looking for Eric as he entered and left the building, then adjusting his schedule to run into him as often as possible. He still couldn't account for it, really. He'd met plenty of attractive people, had lots of them all but throw themselves in his path. None of them had caught his interest the way Eric had with that first look, his unnecessary apology delivered in a honey-sweet accent.

The door opened and Jack half expected to see Eric’s sleepy face like he had the first morning. He was disappointed, of course. Eric wouldn’t be up for another hour or more, and by that time, Jack should be sound asleep, alone in his bed.

But he should be up by the time Eric came home from work, a bit early, and together they would go visit the building manager and make the case for Eric to stay, even if he couldn’t make the security deposit and pay the last month’s rent right away.

Given Jack’s offer to guarantee the money, he didn’t think it would be a problem. The management company would want to keep a quiet, reliable tenant like Eric. Still, it would have been easier if Eric had been willing to just take a loan from him. 

But Eric was dead set against what he called being “beholden” to Jack, saying it wouldn’t be good to have debts between them. Jack got that, sort of. It would make it awkward if they broke up. Eric didn’t seem like he wanted to break up -- Jack’s face flushed when he thought of the two nights Eric had spent in his bed -- and Jack knew he didn’t, so why should that be an issue?

In any case, Jack was glad he’d bitten his tongue before suggesting what he thought was the most practical solution: Eric could simply move in with him. There was an extra bedroom if he wanted it, and if it made him happy, he could pay some of the rent. But there would be no way Eric would think they were ready for that.

Maybe that was why he had been so intrigued by Eric: he hadn’t pushed, he hadn’t pursued. He’d made Jack pursue him, because he wanted to protect Jack, and Jack was pretty sure Eric was still trying to protect the both of them. 

Jack toed his shoes off as he entered his apartment and closed the door. The fragrance of a maple-apple pie filled the space, so different from when Jack used to come home to stale air and dust.

He found the pie on the counter with a small sticky note beside it.

“Welcome back! And thanks for the use of your kitchen! Sleep well and I’ll see you in the afternoon. -- ERB” 

Jack stuck the note on his refrigerator, decided to save the pie for when he woke up, stripped off his suit and went to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Eric settle Jack's lease, deal with someone hitting on Jack and make dinner together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this is so sweet it gives you cavities, I'm sorry.

Jack woke with a groan and checked his phone. 11:30. Time to get up and make himself appear human again.

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the floor before pushing himself up.

He took inventory while he walked to the bathroom. He was sore, yes, but there were no real injuries. _Crisse,_ the morning after games had not felt like this when he was 19. No matter. He would feel better once he got moving.

He brushed his teeth, shaved, and went to the kitchen to put on coffee. He passed the pie again and smiled.

No pie for breakfast, Jack told himself. Dessert. One slice. Did people have dessert with breakfast? Never mind, it was lunchtime. People had dessert with lunch. Sometimes.

He opened the fridge, stopping to touch Eric’s note on the door first. Sure, he would have preferred to come home to find Eric sleeping in his bed -- he could admit that much -- but just the signs that Eric had been here, had been thinking about him while he was gone, were enough to make his insides feel warm.

Which was ridiculous, because they had texted or talked on the phone every day, so of course Eric had thought about him.

Jack wasn’t surprised to find the refrigerator stocked when he opened it; he knew the grocery service was scheduled to come. But this time, he found it organized differently, with containers of vegetables chopped and ready to use. There also were fresh herbs in baggies to go with the line of five or six spice bottles on the counter. It looked like Eric had taken advantage of his kitchen privileges. Good.

Jack pulled out a carton of pasteurized egg whites, spinach, peppers and mushrooms. As he heated a skillet, he texted Eric.

_What did you do to my fridge? I can find everything! Thanks for that, and the pie. I’ll have some for dessert. See you soon._

He was sauteeing the vegetables when the return text came.

_I hope it’s OK that I made myself at home,_ Eric wrote. _I did some make-ahead dinners for you too. They’re in the freezer for when you don’t want to cook. Are you making something now?_

Jack added the egg whites to the skillet, gave everything a stir, and snapped a picture to send to Eric.

_Egg white omelet?_ Eric texted back. _It would taste better if you added just one yolk. Try snipping some fresh parsley (from the fridge) over it when it’s done._

Jack pulled the skillet off the burner and used a spatula to push his eggs and vegetables onto a plate, then found the parsley and added some flecks of bright green on top. It did look nice, Jack thought, taking another picture to send to Eric.

_More of a scramble than an omelet,_ he wrote. _Omelets are too hard._

This time the reply came back almost immediately.

_Really, no. Just no. But I can teach you to make a frittata if you want. :). gtg, we have a line._

Jack ate his breakfast -- somehow, it did taste better with the parsley -- and then cut himself a narrow slice of pie before doing a quick series of stretches and taking a shower. After he dressed, he checked email and spent some time watching tape on the Falconers’ next opponent, but he felt restless. This was the time other guys spent playing video games or hanging out with their girlfriends or families. Any down time during the season was precious, and the coaches would probably tell him to get his mind off hockey for a while.

Normally, he would pick up a book and read, but he felt like he needed to get out. He didn’t want to exercise, per se -- he was hoping Eric would come to the rink with him later, and he could get his cardio in then -- so maybe a walk in the neighborhood would do. Fresh air was always good.

***************************

Chowder had just taken the dishes back to wash them and Eric was running over instructions for the afternoon with Dex when the door jingled and Jack walked in.

It had been five days, and Eric had forgotten just how handsome Jack was.

His cheeks were pink from the chilly air, and his eyes were bright, and his ridiculous bangs were pushed against his forehead by the beanie he wore. His shoulders seemed to fill the doorway inside his coat, and his legs were long and strong in a way that the loose track pants did not disguise. His sneakers were blue -- not the yellow monstrosities he wore to run -- and his hands were bare and huge.

“Uh, Bitty?” Dex was trying to get his attention back, but smirking at the same time..

“So if we run out of the currant scones, use the blueberry ones from the rack, and there are more lemon bars if we need them? Anything else? Uh, hi, Jack. Did you want something?”

“No, just Eric here.”

Eric smiled at Jack, absurdly pleased at the possibility that Jack had made a (very mild) innuendo on purpose, then turned back to Dex. “That’s it, I think. You can text me if you need to know anything.”

To Jack, he said, “Just let me get my things. I’ll be right out,” and went into the back of the bakery.

The dishwasher was running and Chowder was tidying the kitchen.

“I’ll come back tonight to make sure everything’s ready for the morning,” Eric told him. “You can go if you want. It’s OK if you stay with Dex, though, if you want the hours.”

“Tell you what,” Chris said. “I’ll stay until 2:30, then I’ll come back at 4:30 and do what needs to be done with Dex. We’ll deposit the money and get everything ready and you take the night off. You deserve it. Go see a movie or something. Have fun with your boyfriend.”

Eric considered for a moment. Everything was pretty well set; he didn’t usually do any actual baking at night unless he had a special order. It was more just checking the deposit, checking the menu for the next day and making sure everything they needed was on hand, seeing that the napkin holders and such were full. To be honest, most nights it was just a way to reassure himself that he had everything ready, and Chowder and Dex could handle it when they closed. Probably.

“All right. If you’re sure you don’t mind,” Eric said.

Chowder grinned. “Of course not! Good luck with your apartment!”

Eric picked up the neatly boxed pie for Meaghan -- apple, because he didn’t know if she liked pumpkin or pecan, or even sweet potato, and he refused to use frozen berries or peaches -- and joined Jack in the front.

“Looks like I’ve got the night off,” he said. “Ready?”

*********************************

In the end, Jack didn’t know what Eric had been worried about. Of course the management company was happy to keep Eric as a tenant, and to keep Jack happy. It didn’t hurt that Jack had already had an attorney contact the company. He offered to go over the wording of a potential agreement for Jack to guarantee Eric’s security deposit and last month’s rent, and they had agreed. This was really just a formality.

Jack was pretty sure that Eric didn’t know the agreement went further than just guaranteeing the deposit and rent for six months: In it, Jack agreed to cover any damages Eric caused to his apartment until such time as Eric had paid the deposit and last month’s rent in full, and the agreement became void. That meant the company was actually taking less of a risk now than it would be when the deposit was paid. Jack’s attorney had wanted to fight that, but Jack had seen that as a guarantee that they wouldn’t want to kick Eric out in the unlikely event he hadn’t quite finished paying in six months’ time, and he told the attorney it was fine. As long as Eric didn’t burn the whole building down, everything would be fine.

Formality or not, it was an education in charm to watch the way Eric greeted Meaghan, presented her with the pie (“This one’s just for you, for taking the time to meet with us. If you want one to share with the maintenance staff, you just let me know”), chatted about how much he loved the building (“The location is perfect, and it’s so clean and well-maintained. In the afternoons, the light practically makes my apartment glow. I really couldn’t imagine a better place to live”), and smiled through her warnings that he must pay the costs over the next six months. Well, she probably meant them as warnings. By the time they got to that part, she was grinning back at Eric, totally won over.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Eric said, signing the lease that would keep him in the studio for the next year.

Then there was an awkward bit when she asked about why Jack offered to do this, but Eric covered that as well, laughing and saying, “I’ve become piemaker to the Providence Falconers. Jack’s teammates would kill him if anything happened that made me move away.”

“Your teammates must love you,” she said, smiling widely at Jack. “You sure know how to take care of people, don’t you?”

“Uh, not particularly,” Jack said, throwing a glance at Eric, whose face was blank. “This just seemed like a problem I could help with.”

“Maybe I have a problem you could help with too,” Meagan said, tossing her hair over her shoulder and leaning in. “Seeing as you’re so … helpful.”

_Crisse,_ she wasn’t even being subtle. 

“Do you need tickets to a game or something?” Jack asked. “I mean, I know you could buy your own, but sometimes people ask for charity auctions and things. Or maybe you want me to sign something? Besides this contract, I mean?”

She sat up at the reminder of the business at hand, and said, “No, nothing like that. I just thought that maybe sometime you’d want to help a girl out.”

“Tell you what,” Jack said, signing and dating the contract and pushing across the table towards her. “My local attorney’s name and number are on that. They like to keep track of any commitments I make, so if you need me to help with something, give her a call. Thanks for your help on this.”

He shoved his chair back and headed out of the office and towards the elevator. Eric followed, offering his own, far more gracious, thank yous. “And really, if you have any kind of event that you need baked goods for, please let me know,” he was saying. “I’ll give you the friends-and-family discount.” 

Jack smirked to himself, wondering if Eric could actually stop himself from giving pies away for free. Well, maybe for Meaghan.

As soon as the elevator door closed behind them, Eric cocked his head and said, “Is that what you do when anybody hits on you? Tell them to contact your lawyer?”

“Not always,” Jack said. “But when they do it in front of my boyfriend, and they won’t take a hint, yes.”

“But she didn’t know I was your boyfriend,” Eric pointed out.

“I know, and maybe I was little more …”

“Rude?”

“Brusque than usual, because I wanted to just grab your hand or put my arm around you or kiss you to make it obvious, and I couldn’t,” Jack said. “Also, she doesn’t like hockey, and the only part of me that fits her type is my checkbook.”

“How do you know that?” Eric asked.

“Because while she clearly has been told what I do for a living, she didn’t know enough about me to realize that the money wasn’t a big deal to me until I played it down as a favor to a friend,” Jack said. “I mean, maybe I’m flattering myself, but I think most even semi-interested hockey fans have some idea that we get paid a lot. And once she realized, then she started acting interested.”

“True,” Eric said, but he was looking somewhere below the panel of buttons, not at Jack.

“I was just thinking that if I had come onto you, maybe after we started seeing each other in the elevator a lot, you might have done the same thing to me,” Eric said. “Seen me as someone just trying to take advantage. And here I am, taking advantage.”

**************************

The doors slid open and Eric slipped out, Jack behind him.

He knew his face was turning red and and it was all he could do to not bury it in his hands while he hurried to his apartment.

Fuck, why couldn’t he just be normal? Why couldn’t he just appreciate this gorgeous, sweet man that God had seen fit to drop on his literal doorstep? Why did he have to make everything weird?

“This is why you can’t have nice things,” he was muttering to himself as he passed Jack’s door.

“Eric, wait,” Jack said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not taking advantage. Not at all. I offered to do this because I think it stinks that you would have to move out of a place you like -- where you _can_ afford the rent, even -- just because of a deposit. And you know it’s almost certainly not going to cost me anything, anyway. And I like you, and I like having you around, so it’s good for me too.”

Eric had stopped and turned around to face Jack.

“Come on, Eric, please don’t make me beg for forgiveness for guaranteeing your deposit,” Jack said. “I mean, I will if I have to.”

He put on puppy-dog eyes that made Eric smile, and then giggle.

“I know I’m being all weird and awkward, and I’m sorry,” Eric said. “It’s just hard not being able to support myself, you know?”

“You are supporting yourself,” Jack said. “Nearly everyone gets some help. It’s just, most people get it from their parents or or grandparents or something. But it’s no reflection on you if your parents aren’t in a position to do that.”

Jack unlocked his door and stepped aside to let Eric in.

“Maybe we can nap a little before we skate?” he said.

“Uh, sure,” Eric said. “But I think you should know my parents probably could have loaned me the money. If I asked, probably they would’ve. But it would have come with a lecture about how it would be so much less expensive if I moved back home, and why do I have to live so far away?”

“Because you like it better here?” Jack hazarded, taking Eric’s hand and drawing him to the bed where Jack was sitting.

Eric sat next to him and took Jack’s huge hand between both of his. Somehow its very size kept him grounded.

“Because there, the only good queer is a closeted queer,” Eric said. “And I don’t want to live that life. Not to mention, I’d never find anyone who’d pay more than $12 for a pie in Madison.”

Jack gently pulled Eric down and settled behind him, an arm over his waist to keep him close. “The heathens,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here, and if anyone’s taking advantage, it’s me. I’m far more popular with the team now that I bring you around. Nutritionists kind of hate me, though.”

Eric snuffled a laugh and squirmed closer before he felt his body quiet and he was dropping off to sleep.

*******************

Jack woke after a half-hour and listened to Eric sleep for a few minutes.

He didn’t precisely snore, Jack thought, but he snuffled a bit, especially once Jack shifted to wrap an arm around his shoulder and Eric started to wake, rubbing his face into Jack’s T-shirt. It was adorable.

“If you want to go skate, we should probably get up,” Jack murmured. “But we could just stay here if you want.”

Eric snuggled closer for a moment, then pulled back. “Tempting as that is, I should go,” Eric said. “I’m better when I get regular exercise, and I couldn’t go yesterday.”

“Better?”

“Calmer, at least. Usually in a better mood. Not as liable to overreact to things.”

Jack nodded. He hadn’t ever really lived without lots of physical activity, at least, not when he was healthy, but he knew that even missing a day could make everything feel off and ratchet up his anxiety.

“I get it,” Jack said. “My anxiety is worse if I can’t get activity. That’s why I always try to do something, even if it’s an off day.”

“Like today is supposed to be for you?” Eric asked, sitting up.

“Well, like it is for some of the guys,” Jack said. “Our coaches and trainers know that I need to do at least a little bit of cardio or get on the ice to feel right, and they help me plan for that.”

“Tell you what,” Eric said. “I’ll bring my hockey gear and we can just skate together today. That way you won’t have to face an elliptical or a treadmill.”

Jack sat on the edge of the bed to pull his shoes on.

“OK,” he said. “But I really don’t mind the machines. Especially not if I can watch you while I’m using them.”

“No pads, though, OK?” Eric said.

“No pads,” Jack agreed. “I’m not going to be hitting you.”

“And when we’re done, we can come back here and I’ll make dinner.”

“I can help,” Jack said. “Do we need to pick anything up?”

“I don’t think so,” Eric said. “Believe me, I probably know the contents of your fridge and pantry better than you do right now. Unless you want something to drink besides water or beer or I guess juice or milk.”

“No, it’ll be water for me,” Jack said. “I don’t usually drink the night before a game.”

“Then I think we’re good,” Eric said. “Ready to go?”

Jack felt like preening when they took the elevator down and walked through the lobby to the parking garage, Eric next to him, heading directly to his car like he belonged there. He hit the button to unlock the doors and Eric put his bag in the back and hopped into the passenger seat.

“How long before the seat warmers kick in?” he asked as Jack settled behind the wheel.

“Seconds,” Jack promised. “But you can’t seriously be cold?”

“Can I be unseriously cold?” Eric chirped, and Jack smiled. It seemed like just the prospect of ice time worked to dispel his earlier mood. Or maybe it was the nap.

“Didn’t your parents tell you could be whatever you wanted?” Jack returned.

This time, Jack and Eric went directly to the dressing room to put on their skates, and Eric left his bag in front of Jack’s locker. They brought a bucket of pucks and a net onto the ice, and once they had warmed up, they took turns shooting on net. Then Eric fed Jack puck after puck as he practiced one-timers, forehand and backhand, from different positions on the ice.

After Jack had taken so many shots he’d lost count, he said, “Let me feed you some.”

Even after skating with Eric a couple of times, Jack was surprised at how easily Eric handled his passes. He could catch a puck in stride, at speed, and let it go without a pause, or keep skating and dish it back without looking.

It wasn’t like being in a real game, of course. Jack knew that when you were facing opponents who wanted the puck as much as you did, who were willing to push and shove and hit to get it, everything was different. But still, Eric’s skills were impressive for someone who hadn’t picked up a hockey stick until high school. His speed was unreal, but at least Jack knew where that came from. 

“Did you ever think about playing professional hockey?” Jack asked when they stopped for water. “If you’d started a little earlier, there would have been people scouting you, I’m sure.”

He saw Eric’s eyes widen.

“Oh, um, no, I’m too small,” Eric said. 

“There’re some smaller guys, about your size,” Jack said. “Martin St. Louis’s five-eight, and his number’s retired. Gerbe’s only five-five. And they’re all really fast, and really skilled.”

“You’re forgetting,” Eric said. “I used to collapse if anyone so much as bumped into me with a check. I got better, but I was never good enough to play too much. I probably wouldn’t have been able to play at all if I wasn’t fast enough to avoid most of the hits.”

Maybe Jack was reading too much into it, but he thought Eric sounded a little sad.

“Well, you’re really incredible,” Jack said. “To play hockey and to figure skate? I could never do what you can.”

“Oh, come on, I could probably teach you a jump or two, but the team would have a fit,” Eric said. “Maybe I could teach you to make a pie?”

“You’re on,” Jack said. 

Then, just because he could, he said, “Tag! You’re it!” and skated away.

They spent the rest of their time playing tag on the ice like they were squirts again. That might have been the last time Jack had so much fun, Jack thought, at least so much fun not attached to a championship.

****************************

When they saw Rick wave on his way to get the zamboni out, Eric and Jack collected the pucks and dragged the net off before heading back to the locker room.

Eric then realized that both of them needed showers.

Would Jack expect to shower at the same time? Not to say together, because that implied things that were not going to happen what was, actually, Jack’s workplace. Eric couldn’t really articulate a reason not to: They’d been in bed together with no clothes on, for goodness sake. Why couldn’t they get cleaned up next to one another?

Because it would be weird and awkward and Eric wouldn’t know where to look, he thought. Or what to do with the idea of Jack looking at him.

Jack cut through his worries by asking, “You want the first shower?”

“Uh, sure,” Eric said, stripping his sweaty clothes off and wrapping himself in a towel without looking up. “Back in a minute.”

It wasn’t much longer that that when he came back and found Jack already wrapped in his own towel.

“Right back,” Jack said, and as soon as he was gone, Eric dropped his towel and started tugging his clothes on. By the time Jack returned, he’d left the main changing area to comb his hair in front of the mirror, giving Jack a modicum of privacy to change. Soon, Jack’s reflection appeared over Bitty’s shoulder, and he swept a comb through his hair once, twice, and then said, “Almost ready?”

Bitty grabbed his jar of pomade off the counter and said, “Whenever you are.”

************************

Jack truly didn’t know what he had done to get so lucky.

He wouldn’t have said he had a type, but now he knew Eric was it, with his golden hair, pink cheeks and lips, and strong, compact body. He wondered what it said about him that he was fascinated by how much of Eric’s back one of his hands could cover. Or, more honestly, that he could cup half of Eric’s bottom in one hand. He decided not to think about it. Dinner. They were going to go back to his apartment and make dinner.

“What were you planning to make tonight?” Jack asked, starting the car up to go home..

“Nothing fancy,” Eric said. “Just some sauteed chicken and potatoes. I brought home a loaf of Italian bread, and we’ll put together a salad.”

“Sauteed chicken like you did before?”

“Similar cooking method, but different vegetables and flavors,” Eric said. “I’m guessing you like olives, because there was a jar in the fridge. Anyway, we should be able to be eating in under an hour.”

When they got home, Eric went to stow his bag in his apartment and tapped lightly at Jack’s unlocked door before letting himself in. Jack was standing in the kitchen, staring into the open fridge.

“Where did all of this come from?” Jack asked. “I saw it before, but look at this. I see my usual groceries, but where did all these other things come from?”

“I may have done some shopping,” Eric said, reaching around to grab a wire basket of tiny red potatoes that Jack knew had not been on his grocery list. “I just ended up storing things things here because I was doing more cooking in here.”

“So these are your groceries?” Jack said, then saw Eric almost visibly step back from him. “No, it’s fine, just, are there things I shouldn’t use? Things you want me to save for you?”

“Oh, uh, not especially,” Eric said. “If there ever is, I’ll let you know. I just tried to get things that would go with what the delivery service brought. Which we need to talk about. There are sources of protein besides boneless, skinless, flavorless chicken breast.”

“Uh, OK,” Jack said.

“I know they’re easy to cook, but Lord, Jack, looking at what you had in this kitchen, did you even try to make them taste good?” Eric said. “Never mind. You’ve got me now.”

Jack certainly hoped so.

“And for lunch, or when I’m not around for whatever reason, there’s some meals prepared and portioned in the freezer,” Eric said.

Jack opened the freezer and saw two neat stacks of containers. Chicken enchiladas, chicken pot pies, chicken and broccoli casserole.

“Eric, I was gone for five days,” Jack said. “When did you do all this?”

“I missed you?” Eric said, looking up from where he was chopping a tomato. “And you have a very nice kitchen to cook in.”

“And here I thought you liked me,” Jack said. “It was my kitchen you were after the whole time. What can I do to help?”

“Dice that onion?”

“Sure,” Jack said, but as soon as he picked up a knife, Eric put down his own and said, “Let me show you how.”

By the time the potatoes were roasted, Eric had sauteed the chicken and the vegetables and he put them all in the pot with the potatoes and some wine. 

“We just need to let all that heat through together and it will be ready,” he said.

They put the bread Eric brought and the salad he had helped Jack make on the table, then Eric served up plates from the pot in the kitchen and carried them over.

“This smells great, Eric,” Jack said. “Thanks. When I cook for myself, it never looks or smells like this.”

Eric grinned and said, “It’s not really hard. I’m happy to do it.”

“But you don’t have to do it all the time,” Jack said. “You know that, right? I mean, it’s wonderful that you like to cook, but you don’t have to.”

“I know,” Eric said. “But you’re doing so much for me. I want to do something for you, too.”

“I’m really not doing that much for you,” Jack said. “And you don’t have to do things for me. I just like being with you. You make me feel good, and we have fun.”

“We do, don’t we?” Eric asked, looking up at Jack. “And I had fun cooking with you tonight.”

After dinner, Jack and Eric washed up before settling on the couch. Jack turned on the television, just for background noise, and pulled Eric down so his head rested on Jack’s chest and Jack could run his fingers over the short hair at the sides of Eric’s head.

“Stay here tonight?” he said.

“I have to work in the morning,” Eric said. “I have to get up …”

“I know, at 4:30,” Jack said.

“And you have a game tomorrow night,” Eric said.

“I know,” Jack said. “But I’d really like to fall asleep with you. And if I wake up when you leave, I’ll go back to sleep, I promise.”

Eric leaned up and looked at Jack’s face, looking for something. He must have found it, because he sat up further and said, “If you want. But we should probably get to bed. Morning comes early for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dinner Jack and Bitty make is something like [this](http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/mediterranean-chicken-with-potatoes).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Eric spend more time together. Sleeping. Just sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know about anything that needs to be fixed. Or if you liked it.

In his mind, Eric was smooth and classy.

In his mind, Eric could kiss Jack, trail his fingers across his shoulders and down his arm, and whisper, “Take me to bed.”

And once there, he could -- well, he could say things and do things that would drive his boyfriend wild with desire.

In reality, he remembered as he worked the bread dough, he said, “We should go to bed. Morning comes early.”

Which led to Jack hopping off the couch, leading Eric into the bedroom, where he turned down the covers, and then into the bathroom, where they cleaned their teeth. Then they undressed to their underwear and climbed into opposite sides of the bed like a couple married 20 years or more.

There had been a goodnight kiss, of course, but when it started to get a bit heated, Jack had pulled back and said, “You need to get your sleep. G’night, Eric.”

Eric had been about to protest when Jack turned on his side, using his hands to nudge Eric until he was on his side, too, Jack curled around his back, Jack’s arm around his waist holding him close. 

It felt comfortable and safe and so warm, and Eric couldn’t find it in himself to ask for more, and soon he had fallen asleep.

He had woken draped over Jack’s chest three minutes before the alarm on his phone went off, and he had gently extricated himself, picked up his clothes and gone to the bathroom to use the toilet and dress. When he opened the bathroom door, Jack was blinking in his direction, so Eric had whispered, “I have to go get ready for work. See you after the game tonight,” kissed Jack briefly on the forehead and left.

That was an hour and a half ago, and Eric was wondering what kind of boyfriend he was that Jack didn’t want to do more than kiss him goodnight.

Maybe it was just that Jack was tired, Eric told himself, after a night spent in a travel and a game coming up. But between Jack’s schedule and his, they didn’t have much time together, and Eric wanted to do all the things that Dex and Nursey teased him about. He just wasn’t sure how to get things started with Jack, short of just asking, and even at the thought of that he was blushing.

“Morning, Bitty,” Chowder said, swinging through the kitchen door. “How was your night?”

“Good, I guess,” Eric said. “Got to sleep by 9:30, so I have no excuse for being tired.”

“But weren’t you going out with Jack?” Chowder said. “To celebrate?”

“Well, we skated,” Eric said. “Then we went to his and made dinner, but we really didn’t stay up much after we finished and cleaned up.”

“So you washed the dishes and then just went home?” Chowder asked.

“Home is literally like 15 steps away,” Eric said. “But no, I stayed with him. But we just went to bed and fell asleep.”

Chowder’s smile dimmed a little, like he was thinking, but then he said, “Well, I bet that was nice, falling asleep together?”

“It was,” Eric confirmed. “It really was. And waking up was nice, but I woke him getting up and he has a game tonight.”

“I’m sure it’ll be all right,” Chowder said. “I’ll go start the coffee and get the chairs down. Opening in 15 minutes?”

Eric checked the time on his phone. 6:15. “Yep. I’ll start putting things in the cases.”

Time sped up then, between getting ready to open and working through the breakfast rush. It was nearly 9 before Eric poured himself another cup of coffee and said, “By the way, thanks for taking care of things last night. Everything was just like it should be when I got here today.”

Chowder beamed.

“I was wondering if maybe you would want to pick up another couple of hours a week?” Eric said. “You and Dex both. It would be variable -- just, I’m going to need more help if we take in more big catering orders, and Matthew wants me to go down to Boston once a month, so we'll need someone else to help on those days..”

“Sure, Bitty,” Chowder said. “I’ll do whatever I can around my classes, and I know Dex would be happy to get more hours.”

“What about Derek Nurse?” Eric said. “Maybe not to bake, but he’s taken shifts on the register. Would he be interested in coming in on a regular schedule?”

“You could ask him,” Chowder said. “I think he was going to come by today. I mean, I’m not sure he needs the money, but he likes hanging out here.”

Eric watched the register while Chowder finished clean-up from the early rush and then took his break, playing with his phone and having coffee and pie at one of the tables. Then Eric went to the kitchen to make more lemon bars and muffins and pack the orders that were to be picked up later.

He was still there when Chowder stuck his head in and said, “People to see you.”

“People?” Eric asked. “Who are they?”

Chowder smirked.

“One is Jack, and I think someone on his team? Not Mashkov.”

“Be right out.”

Eric finished tying the string on the box he was working on and stowed it in the cooler before heading to the front of the shop, where Jack and Marty stood to the side of the register.

“Good morning, y’all,” he said. “Chowder, could you take over in the back? Those muffins should be done in about five minutes.”

“Sure thing,” Chowder said.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything?” Eric asked Jack and Marty.

Jack grinned and said, “Not today, Eric. I still have pie at home. Marty just wanted to touch base.”

“You’re set with the plans for the event, right?” Marty said. “Jamie said you signed the contract last week. Just let me know if you need anything else, _ouias?”_

“We should be fine,” Eric said. “Two apple, two cherry, two sweet potato and two pecan, right? Plus eight dozen cupcakes, with frosting in Falconers’ colors. We’ll have someone drop everything off an hour and half before the event starts. Two weeks from tonight, right?”

“You got it,” Marty said. “Thanks, Eric. I was going to see if I could offer you tickets for tonight’s game, but this guy here said he beat me to it.”

Eric turned to Jack, confused.

“Remember, before you left this morning --” Eric most certainly did not glance at Marty to see his reaction -- “I said I’d see you after the game,” Jack said.

“Oh, Lord, I thought you meant at home,” Eric said. “But sure, I’d love to come.”

“Just, no treats this time,” Marty said. “I’m getting the idea that you’ll be around a lot, and if you bring sweets all the time, it’ll be too much, because everyone likes them.”

“If you say so,” Eric said.

“I just wanted to ask if you wanted another ticket or two,” Jack said. “Maybe bring Lardo and Shitty? Or someone else. Just, it’s more fun if you don’t have to sit alone.”

“If you can get three tickets, I can probably put them to good use,” Eric said. “I’ll ask Shitty and Lardo, but if one of them can’t make it, I’m sure Chowder or Dex would come with me.”

“Great. I’ll make sure they’re at will-call,” Jack said. “See you later, Eric.”

Marty grinned.

“ _Ouais,_ see you later, Eric,” he said.

*******************

Jack was still blushing from Marty’s chirping when he let himself into his apartment and considered the pie that was still on the counter.

“Bet you’re going to see plenty of him later,” Marty had said with a leer as soon as they walked out of the bakery. “I’m sure he gives you lots of sugar -- and not the kind the nutritionists get on your case about.”

“Oh, come on, Marty,” was all the comeback Jack could muster. “Lay off. Don’t embarrass him.”

“He’s not here right now,” Marty pointed out.

“Yeah, but we’ve only been together for a couple of weeks, and we’ve been on the road for almost half that,” Jack said.

“It can be hard during the season, I know, Jack,” Marty said. “Maybe not the best time to start something, eh? But you have to take your opportunities where you find them. And all teasing aside, he seems like a sweet guy.”

“Yeah, I see what you did there,” Jack said.

“No, I mean it,” Marty said. “Gabby and I want to have you guys over for dinner one of these days.”

“Uh, thanks,” Jack said. “I’ll ask him.”

“Think he’ll bring pie?”

“I don’t think I could stop him,” Jack said.

Jack cut himself a small slice of the pie Eric had left for him before settling down for a nap. His thoughts turned to what tonight might bring. It was on a night like this that Eric had first stayed over, after a game, when Eric didn’t have to work the next morning. He hoped Eric would stay over tonight. He hadn’t really been thinking about tonight when he asked Eric to stay last night. Would Eric want to spend two nights in a row in his apartment? The apartment that he just signed a new lease on, that he could only just afford on his income?

But Jack had seen Eric’s bed; there was no way the two of them could sleep comfortably there. 

Maybe Eric wouldn’t mind staying two nights in a row with Jack, since they'd been on the road so much. Jack knew Eric wanted to stand on his own feet, and to not move too fast, and to make sure they both maintained their own space. Eric had explained all that after Jack had taken offense at Eric's exasperated, “I can't just let you take over my life!” when Jack suggested Eric use his car while he was on the road.

“I wasn't trying to,” Jack had said, working to keep his expression neutral. He wasn't sure if he wanted to scowl or pout.

Whatever his face did, it was enough to make Eric take pity on him and say, “Honey, no,” looking at him with wide eyes. “I didn't mean you were being pushy or anything. I know you just want to help. But you -- you're rich and you're famous, at least compared to me, and it would be so easy for me to just let you spoil me, and get dependent on that, and not keep trying to do what I want to do. And if that happened, you wouldn't respect me and eventually I'd resent you.”

Jack suspected Eric was right, that it was best for Eric to maintain his independence, even if it would make things easier if he would let Jack do more for him. And Eric had no problem taking over his kitchen, apparently. 

It couldn't hurt to ask Eric to stay, he decided. He would just have to be prepared to take a “no” graciously. But Eric was off tomorrow, meaning they wouldn't have to go right to sleep. So he really hoped he would say yes.

Then he had the fleeting thought that he should have devoted more time to thinking about the Red Wings, and how strange it was that he didn't, and then he was asleep.

******************

Eric waited in front of the Dunkin Donuts Center for Dex and Derek. He'd asked Lardo and Shitty, but Lardo had a commission piece to work on and Shitty said he really had to study. Probably in Lardo’s apartment, Eric thought.

Chowder had begged off because he had a date with his girlfriend, but Dex and Derek were free. They both had played hockey through high school, so they would want to watch the game instead of grill Eric about his love life, so that was a bonus, Eric thought.

When they got out of the Uber, they were already bickering, Eric saw. Maybe getting Derek to work at the bakery wouldn't be the best idea. Still, they managed to live together without killing each other. Eric would have to think on it.

“Can you believe this guy?” Dex said as he walked up. “He's a flippin’ Rangers fan.”

“He _is_ from New York,” Eric pointed out reasonably. “As long as it's not the Bruins or -- at least for tonight -- Detroit, I think it's fine.”

“Anyway, I like the Falcs too,” Derek said. “Adopted hometown and all that. Come on, Dex, chill.”

Even Eric rolled his eyes at that, prompting a snort from Dex. When Derek smiled, Eric realized that was probably what he was trying for.

The game passed quickly with Derek (“You should really call me Nursey, Bitty”) and Dex loudly cheering and booing and using any stoppages in play to dissect what had happened and offer their suggestions for adjustments in strategy.

Eric enjoyed listening to them, even if he only gave their conversation half an ear. They spent much of the time excoriating the Wings’ D both for lapses in judgment and lack of effort.

“They've got to protect the point better,” Dex said as yet another puck skipped along the boards and out of the zone.

Marty skated after it, picked it up at the blue line while DeKeyser frantically tried to catch up and then put a booming shot on Mrazek. The goalie soaked that one up in his midsection, but Jack got the puck to Tater off the face off and he rifled it on from the top of the circle.

“Mashkov’s a god,” Derek -- Nursey -- said.

“Hmmm,” Eric hummed in agreement, deciding not to mention that the play made it a five-game point streak for Jack.

The rest of the game was much the same, and when the final horn blew, the Falconers had 5-2 victory.

“Jack's driving me home, so I'm gonna wait outside the dressing room,” Eric said. “I'm pretty sure you can join me if you want to say hi.”

“Will Mashkov be there?” Nursery asked.

“We might see him,” Eric said. “But you know, he does come into the bakery every now and again.”

Tater came in more often than any Falconer aside from Jack.

“I know, but I know you want us to be cool there,” Nursey said. “Here I can fan-boy all I want.”

“Nurse,” Dex broke in. “ _Chill.”_

Nurse just laughed and they accompanied Eric through the tunnels.

Tater came out before Jack, spotted Eric and grinned.

“Bitty baker! Waiting for Jack? He's being almost ready,” Tater said. “I’m wondering why he take so long to comb hair.”

Eric blushed, and Nursey shifted his feet, and Tater blessedly changed the subject.

“Who are your friends?”

“Oh, uh this is Dex -- he works at Sugar and Spice with me -- and his roommate, Derek Nurse,” Eric said.

“Great game, Mr. Mashkov,” Dex said, stepping forward to shake his hand. 

“My name is Alexei, or Tater,” Tater said.

“Yeah, that goal was awesome,” Nursey said. 

“Thanks,” Tater said. “Eric, maybe I'm seeing you tomorrow?”

“The bakery’s not open tomorrow,” Eric said.

“I know,” Tater said. “Nice to meet you guys.”

Tater left just before Jack came out. His smile for Eric was soft, but he didn't come close enough to touch.

“Hey, guys,” he said. “Enjoy the game?”

“We sure did,” Eric said. “That was a fun one.”

“Good game, Jack,” Derek offered.

“Yeah,” Dex said and nodded.

“Can we give you a ride home?” Jack asked. 

“No, that's all right,” Dex said. “We’ll get an Uber. We just wanted to say thanks.”

“Yeah, thanks, bro,” Derek chimes in. “See you Tuesday, Bitty?” 

“Sure thing,” Eric said. “Have a good night.”

To Jack, he said, “Come on, honey. Let's go home.”

***************************

Jack was usually tired after games, but tonight he was more wired. The game’s outcome had never been in doubt after the first period, and while he hadn't had a spectacular night, he played well enough.

Then Eric was waiting for him, and he got to drive him home and usher him into his apartment and maybe (probably?) he would stay.

As they headed for the players’ lot, Jack said, “I really wouldn't have minded taking them home.”

“I know,” Eric said. “And it's not that far. But I'm glad to get right home.”

“Are they OK with me?” Jack asked. “I mean, they're polite enough, but they don't seem to really like me. Are they still mad at me?”

Eric shrugged when he settled into the passenger seat. 

“Maybe more wary?” Eric said. “I mean, they know I haven't had much experience with … relationships? I've dated a bit, but no one … nothing ever seemed to stick. And they don't want me to get my hopes up, you know? And they can see as well as I can how out of my league you are.”

Jack wished he wasn't driving so he could look at Eric’s face. But if the glances he stole were accurate, Eric wasn't upset. He said that like it was a plain fact, like the Earth goes around the sun.

How could Eric be so sure, and so wrong at the same time?

“I'm not,” Jack said. “Out of your league, I mean. I have it on good authority that I'm a hockey robot, I listen to dad music, I'm no fun and I can be an asshole. Especially during playoffs. And that’s leaving aside the anxiety, which can make it hard for me to --”

Eric was sitting up, looking at him.

“Hard for you to what?”

“To react appropriately, sometimes, to think beyond the immediate situation, or to understand that it's not as awful as I think, and even if it is awful, it's not because I'm a terrible person and it can get better.”

“It can always get better,” Eric said softly. “And anyone who thinks you're any kind of robot doesn't know you. It seems like maybe you have a hard time when you feel too much, but that doesn't stop you from feeling at all.”

Jack considered that as he drove towards their building and parked. 

“Maybe that's right,” he finally said. “But sometimes I don't want to feel. That's why I guess I haven’t dated much, at least not since before.”

“Before … you were in the NHL?”

“Before my overdose. I’ve gone on dates, but I never really let myself feel close to anyone like that. It just seemed like it would complicate things. So maybe I do deserve the robot thing, eh?”

“No,” Eric said. “I mean, just because you haven’t had a relationship doesn’t make you a robot. Maybe you just didn’t meet the right person.”

They got out of the car and headed into the lobby to wait for the elevator.

“So what about you?” Jack asked. “Guys must line up around the block to date you. But you said you haven’t had a lot of experience either.”

“I’m just picky?” Eric said it like a question. Jack was learning that sometimes meant he wasn’t sure of his statement, and sometimes meant he wasn’t sure if Jack would accept what he said. Whichever way he meant it, it usually wasn’t an attempt to shut down a conversation -- Eric was more than capable of quick subject changes and saying “We’re not talking about that” -- so Jack pursued it.

“So you just turned everyone down? And decided to date the guy who ran five miles after you?”

“Crazy as it sounds …” Eric said, getting out of the elevator. This time, he went right to Jack’s door. “No, there haven’t been that many opportunities. When I was in school, I really did have to work hard, and there was hockey, and I had my vlog and I spent a lot of time just taking care of the team, baking and cooking. Not that many guys want to date the campus mother hen. Then I started working, and I have this insane schedule -- it’s a lot for people to put up with. So, yeah, I’ve had a few dates, but it doesn’t usually go beyond that.”

Eric shrugged.

“But to be honest, I never put a lot of effort into making anything work either, so maybe I really was just too picky,” Eric said, following Jack into the apartment. “For what it’s worth, I want this to work.”

Jack closed the door and pulled Eric close.

“Me too,” he said.

**********************************************

Eric relaxed into Jack’s arms.

It might just have been the best thing he’d ever experienced. Well, short of the things he’d done with Jack in bed, which also involved Jack’s arms and hands and mouth.

Jack’s mouth. Eric reached up and kissed it. Yes, that was even better.

They stayed like that for a few moments, kissing just inside the door, before Jack pulled away.

“Um, you don’t have to work tomorrow, right?” he asked.

“No,” Eric said. “I’ve got the whole day.”

“I don’t have practice or anything either,” Jack said. “So we don’t need to go to sleep right away.”

Eric felt his breath hitch -- why was this so easy for Jack? -- but Jack seemed to take that as reluctance, and his whole body stiffened.

“Unless you’re really tired,” Jack said, trying to step away.

Maybe this wasn’t easy for Jack either.

Eric held Jack with his arms around his waist.

“No,” he said. “I mean, we don’t have to go to sleep early. I was hoping we wouldn’t.”

Jack’s posture softened again and he kissed Eric briefly before saying, “Can I get you a beer or something? Go sit in the living room?”

“Sure thing,” Eric said, and started to head that way.

“Wait,” Jack said. “I meant to ask -- will you stay tonight? I know you stayed last night, and I know you have your own place and your own life, but I’ve missed you, and I’d really like it if you spent the night.”

“Of course, Jack,” Eric said. “I was hoping to.”

“Well, do you need anything from your place? Anything to make you feel more comfortable? Maybe you could get it now.”

Eric’s mind flitted to Senor Bunny, but he was pretty sure his lifelong stuffed friend would be fine on his own.

“I have a toothbrush here, and my place is just down the hall,” Eric said. “I think I’m good if I can borrow a T-shirt or something. Or not.”

And just like that, Eric felt himself blush.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, if you want something to sleep in, I can find something,” Jack said. “Or not.”

And he smirked, and Eric felt himself blush harder.

“Go,” Jack said. “Sit down. Put on some music that you like. I know you know my kitchen better than I do, but let me get you something to drink and maybe a snack.”

“Is there pie?”

“I was thinking vegetables and hummus,” Jack said. Eric made his expression one of dramatic disappointment.

“Fine, we can have pie,” Jack said. “I was hoping to save it all for myself.”

“Don’t worry, we can make one together tomorrow,” Eric said, and took himself to the couch.

He was scrolling through his phone looking for the best possible playlist when Jack came in with two slices of pie and two bottles of beer -- something light in color and taste -- from the fridge.

He set the plates on the table, handed Eric his beer, and took a sip of his own.

“Do you have that ‘Halo, Halo’ song you played that first time you came and skated?” Jack asked.

“First, it’s called ‘Halo,’” Eric said. “And it’s on like a dozen playlists. Hold on.”

He connected his phone to the bluetooth speaker and hit play, then took a swig of his beer and picked up his pie.

He listened to Queen Bey sing while he ate and watched Jack eat, all but licking his plate while Eric was only halfway done.

“Hungry much?” Eric asked.

“I’m always hungry after a game,” Jack said. “And this pie is delicious.”

Eric smiled, and Jack leaned over to kiss him.

“You’re delicious, too,” Jack said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. SO much fluff. Because I need this in my life right now. Oh, and some baking and some hockey and stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if the (very brief) French is wonky. It's been literal decades since I studied it, and it probably sounds like something out of a kids' reader. I'd happily take suggestion if the wording is off. Translations in notes at the end.  
> Update: many thanks to the lovely Orangepencils for the French help!

Chapter 4

Jack stood in Eric’s small apartment, facing the neatly made bed and dresser. 

Eric had said his running clothes were in the bottom drawer, shoes in the closet.

But Jack’s eyes were stuck on the stuffed brown rabbit that lounged on Eric’s pillow.

“ _Bonjour, Monsieur Lapin,”_ he said, stroking a soft ear with one finger. “You look like a Real Bunny. Maybe I’ll see more of you soon.”

He collected the gear Eric would need in a neat stack and headed back to his apartment, where Eric was emerging from the bathroom, Jack’s worn T-shirt hanging to his thighs, face washed and teeth brushed. Jack doubted he’d shaved; Eric probably didn’t need to every day.

“Here you go,” Jack said. “Leggings, a T-shirt, socks and shoes. I didn’t bring a jacket or anything-- you can grab those when you’re dressed. I’m going to make some toast and peanut butter for a quick snack. Come get some when you’re ready.”

“Not going to try to sneak out without me again, are you?” Eric said.

“No, of course not,” Jack said. “I just didn’t think you’d want to get up so early on your day off.”

Eric snorted as he put his feet into the leggings and pulled them up.

“It’s 7:30,” he said. “In my world, that’s nowhere near _early._ And I’m pretty sure I told you I actually like to get regular exercise. I think you just didn’t want me beating your sorry butt again.”

“You could exercise later,” Jack said reasonably. “And you didn’t beat me. I was following you. That’s different.”

Jack walked to the kitchen to spread peanut butter on two slices of toast, adding some sliced banana. He took a drink of water and set out a glass for Eric as well.

Eric came up behind him and said, “I take it back. Your butt is not sorry at all.”

Jack wiggled his hips just to see what Eric would do. What he did was nearly collapse with a fit of the giggles.

“Oh, my God, Jack, stop,” Eric said. “Peanut butter and bananas? Are you channeling Elvis? I know you still like some of his music.”

“Ha. Ha. Eat up, if you want a chance of keeping up.”

For all his talk, Jack set an easy pace out the door, heading towards the water. They jogged in companionable silence for a couple of miles, until both were loose and breathing easily. Then Jack said, “Ready to amp it up?”

At Eric’s nod, he brought the pace up and kept it steady for the next mile.

Then Eric, breathing deeply but without heavy effort, said, “Faster?”

Jack grinned as Eric set the pace. It wasn’t a struggle to keep up, but Jack could tell it would be difficult if Eric went all out.

Fortunately, Eric brought the pace down after a mile, and then a mile later, they were back to an easy jog.

“I still can’t believe I know a baker who can run like this,” Jack said. “I mean, doesn’t exactly match the stereotype, does it?”

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “Baking is a pretty physical job -- not professional athlete-physical, but not sedentary and it needs a fair amount of upper-body strength. And I was an athlete from the time I was a little kid.”

“How about you take a break from cooking? Can I take you out for breakfast?” Jack asked. “We could go back and shower first, or just eat quick. There’s a little place down here.”

“Ugh, shower,” Eric said. “And I can get some clean clothes on.”

Once on their floor, Eric headed straight to his own door while Jack let himself into his apartment.

His bathroom was larger and much nicer than Eric’s, he thought. But it made sense to shower at the same time, and Eric seemed like maybe he’d be uncomfortable sharing Jack’s shower. Maybe one day. Soon.

Jack was clean and dressed in 10 minutes, washing the plates from their peanut butter toast with the door ajar, when Eric tapped on it and came in.

“Ready to go?” Eric said. “I could kill for a coffee.”

Jack took a look at Eric in skinny jeans, rolled-sleeve button down, hair shiny and styled.

“Whatever you want,” he said.

*******************

Jack led the way to a small diner three blocks from their building, in the opposite direction from Sugar ‘n’ Spice.

It looked like something out of the 1950s, with pies and cakes in a rotating display case near the register, Formica tables and linoleum floors. 

Not the place for a caramel macchiato or even a vanilla latte, Eric thought. But when the server poured them coffee in the heavy ceramic cups that were already on the table, it was fresh, hot and strong. Cream came in a small pitcher -- no plastic and foil containers -- and sugar was in a clear canister. Nothing fancy, but they clearly cared about what they served, Eric thought as he stirred a second spoonful of sugar into his cup.

The menu reflected the same priorities, with all the breakfast basics covered but nothing trendy or what his dad would call “frou-frou.”

Chances were, it would all be good.

Jack nudged his foot under the table. “Is this OK?” he asked. “If you don't like it, we can go somewhere else.”

Eric looked up from his menu. “Of course it's OK,” he said. “It's great. And even if it wasn’t, we couldn't leave now. They know you. It would be a thing if you left without eating. They’d notice.”

“The food is good here,” Jack said. “But I don't think they know me. I’m not here that much.”

Eric set his menu down.

“What's good here?” he said. 

“Well, I usually have some kind of eggs for breakfast, but I've never had anything I didn't like,” Jack said.

Eric nodded and said, “You're a local sports hero who has eaten here enough to have an opinion on the food and usual dishes. They know you. Besides, did you see the way the hostess smiled at you when you came in?”

Eric didn't mention the curious look that had come his way.

Before Jack could answer, their server appeared.

“Are you gentlemen ready to order?” she said. 

Jack asked for a veggie omelet, made with egg whites (and one egg yolk, he amended when he saw Eric’s expression), fruit and whole-grain toast.

Eric ordered cinnamon-swirl French toast with a side of Canadian bacon and smirked at Jack's scandalized look.

As soon as the server left the table, Jack said, “You should eat more protein.”

“I'm not the one with professional hockey career and a nutrition plan,” Eric said. “Besides, I got the Canadian bacon. You're just lucky they don't have biscuits and gravy.”

“I think it's your cardiovascular system that lucked out there,” Jack chirped.

“Maybe so, maybe so,” Eric allowed. 

The French toast was delicious, and Jack seemed torn between appreciating his breakfast and watching Eric eat his. Eric would have been embarrassed, but he found he liked having Jack's eyes on him. He liked it enough that maybe he played up his enjoyment of his food a little more than necessary. But just a little; the French toast was excellent.

“Do you need anything to make a pie?” Jack asked when they were getting ready to leave. “Do we need to stop at the store?”

“Probably something for filling. I know I have flour and butter and sugar at home, and a rolling pin and pie plate.”

“Do you need a mixer or anything?”

Eric kept himself from snorting. 

“If you want your crust to be tender, you make it by hand,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

Eric looked at the desserts in the display case while Jack paid at the register, trying to figure out where the restaurant bought them. Sugar ‘n’ Spice could definitely do better, he thought, but maybe not at a price that would be attractive.

He was musing on whether to leave a card with the hostess when Jack’s phone rang -- did anyone use the sound of an old telephone bell anymore? -- and he shot an apologetic look at Eric before accepting the call.

_“Salut, Papa! Ça va?”_

Eric wandered outside to give Jack space, only to find Jack following him, keeping up his phone conversation in what Eric identified as French, but he tuned out because a) he wanted to give Jack privacy and b) despite his two semesters of college French, he really couldn’t understand it anyway.

*********************************

Jack could feel his anxiety level ratcheting up as he walked home, Eric at his side, his father talking on and on from the phone pressed to his ear.

It was rude to stay on the phone when he was meant to be spending time with Eric, but he didn’t know how to get his father off the phone without telling him that he was with someone. Then his father would want to know who, and Jack wasn’t ready to share Eric yet.

But Jack didn’t keep secrets from his parents. Not since before. Not big secrets, anyway. He told them about the important things in his life, good and bad. And Eric deserved not to be a secret.

Well. His father was telling him that both his parents would be in Providence for Marty’s benefit, stay for the games that weekend, then attend the Falconers’ breakfast. Eric wouldn’t be a secret much longer.

Jack glanced at Eric as they walked. Eric was looking at the traffic on the street, at a dog sniffing a tree, not at Jack. But he didn’t look upset or annoyed.

But Jack should get off the phone as soon as he could.

“ _C’est bien, Papa,_ ” he said in French. “ _J'attends avec impatience. Mais j'dois vraiment y aller maint'nant._ ”

“ _Non, y'a juste quelqu'un qui m'attends. Juste quelqu'un._ ”

“ _OK. Je t’aime aussi. Dit à maman que je l’aime aussi._ ”

He ended the call and tucked his phone in his pocket and switched back to English.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to take so long. It was my dad.”

“Yeah, I got that much,” Eric said. “It’s fine, really. Everything OK?”

“Yeah, fine,” Jack said, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets and hunching his shoulders. “He said he and my mom are coming for the benefits and to the games that weekend.”

“Okaaay,” Eric said. “You don’t seem thrilled?”

Jack tried for a smile that he could feel was more like a grimace.

“It’s just a lot right now,” he said. “They don’t know about you --”

“And we can absolutely keep it that way if that’s what you want,” Eric said, opening the door to the market and letting Jack precede him.

“No,” Jack said.

“That’s not what you want?”

“No, it’s not,” Jack said. “And it wouldn’t work anyway. The whole team knows about us. Someone would say something. So I’ll have to tell them before they come. But then they’ll worry.”

“Because you’re dating a guy?”

“Because I’m dating anyone,” Jack said. “I think for them, the only thing that would be more worrisome is if I kept on dating no one. It’s just that, pretty much, they just worry about me. And it can be a lot.”

Jack watched Eric examine the apples and sighed. “It’s been 10 years,” he said. “I know I’ll always have anxiety. But I’m not a kid anymore. I’m better at handling it, and I know when I’m not handling and need to get help.”

“Have you said that to your parents?” Eric asked.

“Of course I have,” Jack said. “And they say they don’t mean to intrude, but it’s just that before it happened, they didn’t know what was going on, so now they want to know everything. And they worry I’m not social enough, but if I do want to see someone, they’re all over it before something can even get started properly.”

He rubbed a hand through his hair, then apologized again.

“I’m sorry, Eric,” he said. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

“Wait,” Eric said. “Was there something I was supposed to sign?”

Jack couldn’t help the small smile that appeared.

**********************************

“Let’s see what you have before I get stuff from my apartment,” Eric said.

“What I have … for what?” Jack asked.

“To make the pie,” Eric said. “We’ve got the apples from the market, and I know you have butter and flour and salt and sugar. Do you have any maple syrup? I thought I saw some. What about cinnamon?”

Eric found all of those ingredients, but declared the cinnamon too old to be of any use.

“I want my pastry board and rolling pin anyway,” Eric said. “And I don’t think you even have a pie plate.”

He left Jack’s apartment to gather the supplies, stacking the cinnamon, the plate and the rolling pin on the heavy granite board that normally sat on his counter. He added a pastry blender as well.

He brought them back, and said, “OK, the first thing is to put the pastry board in the fridge.”

“Put the board in the fridge. Check,” Jack said. “Uh, why?”

“Because it will help keep the dough cold when we roll it out, which keeps the butter from melting before it goes in the oven, which makes for a light, flaky crust,” Eric said. “Actually, put the mixing bowl in while you’re at it. While those chill, we’ve got apples to peel.”

Eric was on his third apple when he finally had to say something to Jack.

“Slow down. You’re murdering that poor apple,” he protested. “The idea is to take the skin off, not to reduce it to just the core.”

“Sorry,” Jack said.

“And stop apologizing.”

“Sorry,” Jack said. “I mean, so-- Never mind. I was just trying to keep up. How do you do that so fast?”

“The same way you get to Carnegie hall,” Eric said. “Practice.”

With both of them working, they soon had a bowl of neatly sliced apples, mixed with some cinnamon and maple syrup. Eric pulled the mixing bowl from the fridge and added his dry ingredients, then started dicing the butter for the crust.

“Why are you cutting that up?” Jack asked. “Why not just mix it all together?”

“Because what we want is tiny pieces of butter coated in the flour mixture,” Eric said. “That gets us a tender and flaky crust.”

Eric told Jack to put the cut up butter in the bowl while he filled a smaller dish with water and added ice.

Then he showed Jack the pastry blender. “There a couple of ways to do this, besides using a food processor, which we are most certainly not doing for one pie. We can use this -- just push it into the mixture, pick it up, and do it again at a slightly different angle -- or we can use our fingers. I like using my hands, personally.”

“Then let’s do that,” Jack said.

“OK, watch me,” Eric said, putting his hands in the bowl and rubbing the flour and butter mixture between his fingers. “Now you do it.”

Jack reached into the bowl and mimicked Eric’s movements, but found himself distracted by the way Eric’s fingers kept brushing his.

“Like this,” Eric said, massaging the flour into the butter.

Jack watched Eric’s hands, then tried to imitate his movements. Before long, the butter was all in tiny pieces, each coated by the flour mixture.

“Now we add the ice water, one tablespoon at a time,’ Eric said, drizzling the water over one section of the bowl, He used a fork to separate the dampened mixture from the rest, then added another spoonful to the dry part. When all of it had been sprinkled, he brought it all together with his hands, forming it into a ball. He divided that in two and pressed each section into a disk.

“Some people substitute vodka for half the water,” Eric said. “It really doesn’t affect the taste, and it can make for an easier, more pliable dough. But I’ve always thought that was kind of cheating -- probably mostly because I started baking when I was a little kid in a house where vodka was not to be had. Anyway, put this disk in the fridge and get out the pastry board, please? We’re going to start by rolling the bottom crust."

Jack brought the chilled slab to the counter. Eric scattered flour over it and then put his disk of dough exactly in the center.

“The main thing about rolling dough is that you always start from the center and roll to the outside edge,” Eric said, making his actions follow his words. He watched Jack follow his motions with his eyes, as he felt as much as saw the disk be transformed into a round, smooth sheet of dough.

“You want to try?” Eric offered, and stepped aside to admire Jack’s muscular forearms as he worked the dough.

And worked it. And kept working the same spot until Bitty saw a crack developing.

“Jack, stop!” he said.

Jack halted immediately, lifting his hands from the rolling pin, which fell from the counter to the floor with a clatter.

“OK, you didn’t have to do that,” Eric said. “It’s just that if you work it too much, it gets dry and starts breaking.”

Eric dripped some ice water into the dough from his fingers and pasted the edges of the crack together.

“There,” he said. “It’s small, and on the bottom crust, so you won’t be able to see. I think this is ready for the pan.”

Eric rolled the dough around the rolling pin to lift it from the counter and position it in the pan. At first, it was draped almost like a blanket over the pie plate, and then Eric tucked it carefully into the bottom,

“Hand me those apples?” he asked. “By the way, do you have maple sugar for the top?”

****************************

Jack didn’t think he’d ever watched someone make a pie from scratch before. Watching Eric was kind of mesmerizing; he seemed to know what to do without conscious thought, despite the fact that the state of the crust or the amount of sweetness in the filling was clearly taking up space in his head.

Kent had once said something about a competence kink after watching Jack bury 50 shots in a row in the upper right corner of a net; now he thinks he knows what Kent meant. Because for all Eric kept explaining and demonstrating, all Jack could think was how attractive Eric was.

That made it a little difficult when Eric asked Jack to actually do something, like taking a turn rolling the dough or helping with the fluting (was that the right word?) on the edge.

But he muddled through with Eric’s help and his mild chirps (“Gently! You can’t check pie crust into submission!”). Soon the pie was in the oven and they had 45 minutes before the timer went off.

“Whatever shall we do?” Eric cast a faux innocent look at the ceiling.

“Watch game tape?” Jack deadpanned.

Eric giggled just a little, but said, “If you really have work to do, I can go home.”

“Not at all,” Jack said. “Just, let’s go sit on the sofa and put something on TV and see where that goes?”

He knew where he wanted it to go, and judging from the look on Eric’s face, Eric did too.

When they sat, Jack took one of Eric’s hands in his and marveled at it. It was small, compared to his, but strong. It was marked with a collection of small scars -- probably mostly burns from bumping into a hot pan or oven rack, but a few cuts as well -- and the calluses that would be familiar to any hockey player. Jack had seen Eric use his hands in so many ways, and watching their deftness with pie crust had affected Jack in a way he didn’t expect.

There were so many sides to Eric, so many things he could do, and he did all of them with a warmth and kindness shone through in his baking. Of course his strength was in making sweets. What else would it be?

Jack blushed at his own thoughts. _Crisse,_ when had he gotten so cheesy?

He looked up at Eric’s face to see Eric looking at him.

“What’re you thinking about?” Eric asked.

“Your hands," Jack said. “How strong they are. How many things you can do with them.”

“Anything in particular?” Eric said, with a smirk that told Jack exactly what Eric was thinking.

“Not _that,”_ Jack protested. “OK, maybe that too.”

Then he raise Eric’s hand and held it against the side of his own face, before turning his head so he could kiss Eric’s palm.

“I really like the way it feels when you touch me,” Jack said. 

“I like the way it feels when I touch you too,” Eric said, bringing his other hand up to cup Jack’s face and kissing him. He scooted closer on the couch and ran his hands up into Jack’s hair, then rested one on his neck while the other slid down his muscular back, kissing him as deeply as he could.

“Lord, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to kissing you,” Eric said when he finally broke away. 

“Well, keep trying, eh?” Jack said. 

Eric brought a finger to Jack’s lips, pretending to shush his chirping, and gasped when Jack pulled it into his mouth and sucked on it.

“I never would have thought that would feel so good,” Eric said.

“Mmm,” Jack said. “I can see what else I can do to make you feel good.”

“Pie, Jack,” Eric said.

“Twenty-eight minutes, Eric,” Jack said. “Plenty of time.” 

When the timer buzzed, Eric pulled himself from Jack’s arms to check the pie. Jack groaned at the the thought of moving, but losing Eric’s warm weight from on top of him helped dispel his drowsiness and he followed Eric into the kitchen.

Eric was using oven mitts to pull the pie from the oven and set it on the stovetop.

“It looks really great, Eric,” Jack said. 

“Yeah, especially the edge, right?” Eric said.

“Can we have some now?”

“Give it a few minutes to cool,” Eric said. “You don’t want to burn your mouth. I mean, I really don’t want you to burn your mouth.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Salut, Papa! Ça va?”_ : Hi, Dad. How's it going?  
> “ _C’est bien, Papa. J’attends avec impatience. Mais j'dois vraiment y aller maint'nant._ ”: Great, Dad. I'll look forward to it. But, I really have to go now."  
>  _Non, y'a juste quelqu'un qui m'attends. Juste quelqu'un._.”: No, only there's someone waiting for me. No, just someone.  
>  “ _OK. Je t’aime aussi. Dit à maman que je l’aime aussi_ : I love you too. Tell Mom I love her too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Eric have an evening out with the Falconers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very mildly NSFW kind of in the middle. Discussion of coming out -- or not -- and references to homophobia.

Eric rinsed their plates and put them in Jack’s dishwasher while Jack browsed through the offerings on Netflix.

“What about this one?” Jack asked, pulling up a documentary about FDR. It had good reviews, and was focused on domestic history as much as on the military history of World War II.

Eric wrinkled his nose.

“‘Cooked’?” Jack suggested. “‘Michael Pollan tries his hand at baking …. et cetera, et cetera … and explores how cooking transforms food and shapes our world.”

“That sounds really interesting,” Eric said. “I mean, I think I’ll like it, but is it something you’d be interested in? I can always watch it later if you want something lighter.”

Jack shrugged. 

“It’ll be fine,” he said.

The first episode, on fire and what that meant for the human diet, was just queued up when Eric’s phone buzzed with a text alert.

“Tater?” Eric said. “Why do you suppose he’s texting me? Did he forget the bakery is closed on Sundays?”

“No,” Jack groaned. “He said he was gonna do this.”

“Do what?” Eric asked.

“Just read the text,” Jack said.

_Hello, Eric! Some of the team are to meet up at the Red Fez for drinks and food. We owe you drinks for pies, and for making zimmboni lighten up. Meet us at 6? I pick you up if you want._

“They want me to go for drinks with them?”

“Tater said something after the game yesterday,” Jack said. “You can go if you want. I think it’s Tater, Snowy, Marty, Guy and maybe Thirdy?”

“Do you want to go?” Eric asked.

“I don’t usually …” Jack started as Eric texted Tater.

_Is it OK if Jack comes too?_

The answer came within seconds.

_Of course, he already invited, but he not like to come out. :(_

“Jack, he used a frown emoji. He’s sad you won’t come with,” Eric said. “Besides, I should go. They’re your friends, and I want them to like me. But if I go on my own, you know they’re going to try to get me to talk about you. Or tell their own embarrassing stories about you.”

“What makes you think they won’t do that if I’m there?” Jack said. 

“If you really don’t want to, I’ll say no,” Eric said. “I wanted to spend the whole day with you.”

“Don’t do that,” Jack said. “Not if you want to go. They probably just want to get you out of my boring old man clutches.”

“But I won’t be in them if you come with,” Eric said.

“Fine,” Jack said. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Eric said, and flashed Jack a grin. “That means we can probably leave earlier anyway, because they’ll be so surprised you turned up at all. Do you know this place, the Red Fez? What should I wear?”

“You’re fine with what you’re wearing,” Jack said. “It’s pretty casual. What time are they meeting?”

“Tater said 6,” Eric said, typing into his phone.

_I’ll meet you there. Looking forward to it!_

“There,” he said. “I didn’t say you were coming, just that I’d meet them there. Do want to get an Uber or drive?”

“I’ll drive,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t drink much anyway.”

“You’re sure you want to go?” Eric asked. “Tater said you usually don’t.”

“I usually just feel awkward,” Jack said. “I mean, I never have more than a beer or two, and I don’t pick up, and don’t want to just talk about hockey the whole time. But I don’t know what else to talk about with them.”

“But you don’t have a hard time talking to me,” Eric said, “and you’ve known these guys a lot longer.”

“But all they know about me is I’m a hockey robot,” Jack said.

“You’re not,” Eric insisted. 

“So what should I talk about?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “Religion? Politics?”

“Now I know you’re chirping me,” Jack said.

“Well, do what you did with me,” Eric said. “Ask about what they’re interested in. People usually like to talk about themselves. And you must know some things about them.”

Jack still looked unsure.

“Anyway, I don’t really know them, so I can ask questions,” Eric said. “You can follow my lead.”

He settled back against Jack’s chest.

“Do we have time for one episode before we go?”

“I think so,” Jack said, wrapping an arm around Eric’s waist. “Look at this way: It’s history and food. So it's important.”

******************************

Jack made up his mind to have a good time.

He still wasn’t sure this was the best way to spend an evening with Eric. He was happy cooking at home, cuddling on the sofa, making it an early night and heading to bed.

He supposed going out for a meal would be fine, too, but he didn’t really want anyone -- anyone outside his team, anyway -- to notice he and Eric were together just yet. This was Providence, it would probably be fine, but. But why borrow trouble when you didn't have to? 

He and Eric hadn’t discussed the situation too much. There was one conversation, a couple of days after Eric had first called Jack his boyfriend, when Jack told Eric he didn't want to come out in any sort of public way, but neither would he deny his relationship with Eric or go to any great length to hide it.

“I think my plan is just to live my life,” Jack had said. “In terms of what the tabloids care about, it's a pretty boring life. But if -- when -- they figure out that we’re dating, it will probably get rough for a while. To be honest, it will probably be tougher on you, because people can find you and approach you at the bakery.”

Eric had huffed at that. “It’s not like I try to hide the gay, Mr. Zimmermann. The only difference will be that I have a seriously gorgeous boyfriend now.”

“A boyfriend that some people think shouldn't have a boyfriend at all,” Jack had countered. 

Eric had sat back on the couch, a grimace of distaste on his face. “I grew up figure skating in Georgia, Jack,” he said. “Maybe I never came out when I lived there, but I'm pretty sure lots of people made their own assumptions. It's not like I've never dealt with people who wanted to express their opinions on what I should do or be.”

“I know that,” Jack said, remembering the way Eric reacted when he realized he was being followed on a run. It had turned out fine when he recognized Jack, but he made sure Jack knew that it had been a bad idea. “But -- look, I don't want to come across like I'm a big celebrity or anything, but you're not used to having people who don't even know you harassing you. God knows I'm not trying to talk you out of this, Eric, but you need to know.”

Eric had looked serious, Jack thought, but not scared, when he straightened up and said, “I'm aware, at least in theory. I know that I don't know what I don't know” (Eric’s nose had wrinkled at his own sentence) “but I'm not going to give up because of that.”

They had avoided any public displays of affection since then -- or, well, ever, since they hadn't actually been dating before then. Now they were going out as a couple with people who knew they were a couple. 

And he was going to have a good time.

The thing was, he realized a half-hour after they got there, he was having fun.

Seated at a table in the corner between Eric and Alexei, he didn't find himself called on to talk about much of anything. Instead, he listened to Eric share his own stories with the Falconers, about hockey, about baking, about growing up in the American south. For his part, Eric had Alexei and Marty talking about the foods they missed from their childhoods, which somehow turned into a more general conversation of the youth hockey systems in their respective countries. 

Jack found himself contributing to that part of the talk, from the perspective of a child who was expected to be an exceptional player from the time he stepped on the ice as a minor mite.

“Didn't you ever want to be something else?” Marty asked. “I think when I was 6, I wanted to be a firefighter. Or Superman.”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t remember,” he said. “As far as I recall I just assumed I would play hockey like my dad.”

There was a moment of silence, then Marty raised his glass and said, “And look at you now. What about you, Eric? What did you want to be when you grew up?”

Eric thought for a moment.

“Well, I did have dreams of being an Olympic figure skater,” he said. “But that’s not a long-term career, and I think I knew that pretty early on. Probably always something involving food, though.”

“You skate so good?” Tater said.

Eric didn’t look like he took offense.

“Not now, of course,” he said. “It’s been, what, seven years since I competed? And to be honest, I think I was close, but maybe not close enough. Maybe I could have done it if we lived somewhere where I could have gotten more comprehensive training. Katya was a marvel, but she was just one coach, and there really weren’t the facilities or the programs I would have needed to be really world-class, and I didn’t want to move away from my family on a chance, especially since they probably would have had to take a second mortgage to pay for my training.”

Jack felt a twinge somewhere deep inside. Sure, he’d moved away from home as a teenager to pursue hockey, but there had never been any question -- not in his mind, or anyone else’s -- that he would make it. Not when he first left for the Q, anyway. Those questions came later. And he never worried about how pursuing his goal would affect his family financially.

Eric was continuing.

“But that’s when I started playing hockey, and that was great, too,” he said brightly. “I was never like y’all, but it got me a scholarship and brought me to the northeast, so it was a pretty good deal all around.”

“To play hockey so small, you must be good,” Tater said.

“He’s fast,” Jack chimed in. “I can’t beat him in a race on skates.”

That brought approving looks, and Guy said, “Maybe we should all play a little shinny, then.”

“That’d be great,” Eric said, smiling brightly. “No checking, though.”

*****************************

“Do you think they meant it?” Eric said, in the passenger seat.

“Meant what?” Jack asked.

“That they would play with me?” Eric said. “I mean, y’all are professionals.”

“I think they’d take it easy on you,” Jack said. “It’d just be for fun.”

Eric was quiet for a moment and then said, “Oh, my gosh. Do you think they’d mind if some of my Samwell teammates joined us?”

‘I doubt it,” Jack said. “But for something like that, we’d probably have to wait for the end of the season. If it’s just you, we could invite a couple of guys next time you skate at our facility.”

Eric nodded. 

“Yeah, that way it’s not a big deal. But Shitty and Ransom and Holster would absolutely freak. And Dex and Nursey only came downstairs last night because they wanted to meet Tater.”

“Tater, eh?” Jack smirked at him. 

“Well, they know you’re taken,” Eric said. Riding the elevator upstairs, Eric admired Jack, in the way he wanted to before they started dating.

He leaned against the wall, just looking at Jack: the deep blue eyes; the jaw line that could cut glass, with just a hint of stubble to draw the eye, the breadth of his shoulders filling out the casual leather jacket; the way his T-shirt stretched over his muscular chest. His hockey butt -- yes, Eric had played enough hockey to know that was a thing -- was only made more obvious by his narrow waist and thick thighs.

Jack, he saw, was looking back just as frankly, and looked like he liked what he saw. Or maybe he just liked the way Eric was looking at him.

“You’re beautiful,” Eric said, then was instantly embarrassed. Good lord, couldn’t he think of anything better to say? But Jack was beautiful -- not just hot, although he was that, or even handsome, but really and truly beautiful -- and he should know that.

Jack’s cheeks pinked, only adding to the effect, and Jack smiled.

“Now look who’s talking,” he said. “Look who I get to take home.”

“Jack, I --”

“Please, Eric, stay with me tonight,” Jack said. “I know you have your own place and your own life, but one more night? You can bring your bunny if you want.”

Now Eric felt himself blush.

As the elevator doors opened, he said, “You know about Senor Bun?”

“I saw him when I went to get your clothes this morning.”

“Well, I think he can stay home for tonight,” Eric said. “Wouldn’t want to corrupt him. And yes, I’ll stay tonight if you want. But tomorrow I have to spend at least a few hours working, to get things ready for Tuesday.”

“That’s all right,” Jack said. “I have practice, and then a charity thing. But I’m not quite ready for our weekend together to end yet.”

This time, when they entered Jack’s apartment, Jack led Eric straight to the bedroom and started removing his clothes.

“Getting a bit forward, aren’t we, Mr. Zimmermann?” Eric giggled, then took advantage of Jack pausing to tug his T-shirt over his head.

“I see how it is,” Jack said, pulling Eric close so their bare torsos were pressed together and running his hands up and down Eric’s back while he kissed at his neck.

He straightened a bit to claim Eric’s mouth, then used his hands to push Eric’s trousers and underwear down at the same time. He kept kissing him while his hands cupped Eric’s bottom.

Eric groaned into Jack’s mouth while he tried to work his trousers down.

In the end, he was profoundly grateful that Senor Bun was not there to see what happened next.

************************

Jack was just slinging his jacket into his locker stall when the first chirp hit.

It was, unsurprisingly, from Tater.

“Sure, Mr. Captain Jack, go out with team once then start coming late for practice,” Tater said. “Two beers too much?”

Jack hastily checked the time on his phone, then looked around, spying a couple of empty locker stalls.

“We don’t hit the ice for another half-hour,” he said. “Guy and Marty aren’t even here yet.”

Tater ignored his protest.

“Maybe not the beer. Maybe you spend too much time tasting sweet baking -- or the baker,” Tater grinned.

“ _Crisse,_ Tater, that barely makes sense,” Jack said. “Besides being so far from from any of your business that you’d need a plane, a train and an automobile to get there.”

“Don’t think we didn’t notice you’re not saying no,” Thirdy chipped in.

“Cut it out,” Jack said. “You’re embarrassing Poots here.”

Poots, indeed, was looking at the inside of his stall like his life depended on it. Jack wasn’t sure what that was about -- did Poots have an issue with him having a boyfriend? Or did he find the sexual innuendo in general too much? Or just think the way Tater was using it was an embarrassment, which, to be fair, it was?

Well, this wasn’t the time or place to address it, Jack thought. As long as Poots didn’t make an issue of anything, Jack thought he could let it lie at least until they had a chance for a one-on-one conversation.

But the talk about Eric didn’t end when they got on the ice.

Marty took off in a sprint and said, “Is he this fast?”

Then Guy tried to beat him, and said, “No, I bet he’s this fast.”

Jack just shook his head and smiled. He’d been around hockey players to see the teasing for what it was -- really a form of affection -- and to know the best way to stop it was to ignore it until they got bored. Besides, they’d have to stop once practice really got going.

They did, but they started up again when they left the ice and Jack, Tater and Snowy got ready for their visit to Hasbro Children’s Hospital. This time it was Snowy who said to Tater, directly in front of Jack, “Do you think they’ll recognize him? I mean, it looks kind of like Jack Zimmermann, but this one is smiling.”

“Oh, come on,” Jack said. “I smile when I visit sick kids.”

“Not like that,” Snowy said. “You’ve had a dopey smile on your face all morning. Usually it looks more like you’re forcing face to do something that someone once told you was a smile for just as long as it takes for you to sign something for a kid and beat a hasty retreat.”

“Really?” Jack said. It was true that he didn’t like hospital visits -- sick kids always made him sad, and guilty for what he put his parents through -- but he hadn’t realized it was so obvious. “I’ll try to do better.”

Now Snowy looked concerned. “You do fine,” he said. “No one feels comfortable there. We’re just a distraction, eh? No worries. It’s just, happy looks good on you.”

Jack drove over on his own, meeting the other players and Jamie from PR in the office of the child life specialists.

“We’ll start with some time in a couple of playrooms,” the hospital person explained, “then visit a couple of the kids who are too sick to leave their rooms. In the play rooms, just follow the kids’ lead. Do a puzzle with them, or play a game, or draw.”

It wasn’t long before Jack found himself in a chair so small that it felt like his knees were up around his ears. Sarah, a little girl of about 5 with a big white bandage on the side of her face, was kneading pink Play-Doh in her hands.

“Wanna make something?” she said. “There’s more Play-Doh.”

So Jack opened a can of yellow dough and started rolling it out flat with a miniature rolling pin. Within minutes, they were joined by Hank, a boy a bit older than Sarah, Jack thought, and Julissa, a girl who was a bit younger.

Jack kept his hands moving as he asked about the car Hank was making and the pink cat (maybe?) that was taking shape in Sarah’s fingers.

“I making cookies,” Julissa announced. 

“You can’t have cookies,” Sarah said. “Remember, you have diabetes.”

“I can so,” Julissa said.

“She can have all the Play-Doh cookies she wants,” Jack said. “And probably real ones sometimes.”

He looked down at what he was doing.

“I’m making a Play-Doh pie because I have a friend who makes the best pies, but I’m not allowed to eat very much of them.”

At the end, Jamie took a picture of the four of them, each holding up their creations. With signed releases from the kids’ parents, the picture would go on all the Falconers’ social media pages.

“Any progress starting a Twitter or Instagram account, Jack?” Jamie asked. “I can send you the pic if you want to post it.”

“Uh, not yet, but soon maybe?” Jack said. “I think Eric would help me.”

Jack wasn’t sure how to feel about the way Jamie just nodded in recognition at Eric’s name. He knew PR knew; he’d told George he had a boyfriend just in case it blew up. But it was still a little strange.

****************************

Eric took a break after checking the inventory and prepping dry ingredients for the first baking jobs of the next morning.

He was scrolling through his phone when the notification of a tweet from the Falconers popped up.

He tapped it to find an image of his boyfriend surrounded by three adorable children, all proudly holding up their Play-Doh creations. Jack’s was a pie -- cherry, going by the red filling and lattice top -- while the others were, well, something pink, a heart-shape and a car (maybe?).

He quickly responded.

_OMGCheckPlease: .@PVDFalconers too cute!_

That was generic enough. People would think he was talking about the kids. But he would remember to compliment Jack on his lattice later.

He had turned to work out a schedule for getting the catering orders done when his phone buzzed with a text alert.

_Jamie wants to know if you’ll help me set up Twitter and Instagram accounts._

He frowned at the phone.

_Jamie?_

_From PR,_ Jack explained. _I told George -- the AGM -- about us, and Jamie knows about you. I hope that’s OK. if I didn’t say anything, they still would have found out_

 _That’s fine, honey,_ Eric responded. _It’s not my reputation that needs to be protected. i just didn’t know who Jamie was. And I understand why you had to tell mgmt. But maybe next time give me a heads up?_

There was a slightly longer pause … filled with the three undulating dots meaning Jack was typing … before he got a response.

_I know I should have told you, but I talked to George just before we left for the roadie and I just forgot to mention it. She recruited me years ago, and she’s more like a friend. She’s always had my back. And no one is worried that dating you will ruin my reputation -- at least, I’m not. Neither are George and Jamie. I think Jamie is hoping you’ll pull me into the 21st century. She may have stalked your social media._

Twitter was fine, Eric thought. Facebook wasn’t even interesting, and Pinterest was only for dedicated bakers.

 _My vlog?_ he typed.

 _Maybe,_ Jack responded. _I liked it._

Eric groaned, then remembered he was an actual adult, with an actual job, that actually involved baking, and his parents knew he was gay, and more eyeballs on his vlog was actually a good thing.

 _I’m glad,_ he said.

An hour later, he was on the phone with Derek Nurse.

“I don’t have a lot of hours to give you, but we could use someone to help with the register and cleanup on the days I have to go to Boston, and when we have big catering orders,” he explained. “Chowder and Dex thought you might be interested, since you’ve helped out before and you kind of know how things work here.”

“You mean, ‘Bitty’s the boss and what he says goes’?” Derek asked, the smile in his voice coming through over the phone.

“Pretty much,” Eric admitted.

“Do I get free coffee?” Derek said.

“Absolutely,” Eric said. “At least, while you’re working. Otherwise at the discretion of the management.”

“Sure,” Derek said. “Sounds good.”

“You haven’t even asked about how much you’ll get paid,” Eric said.

“It’s all good,” Derek said. “When do I start?”

“I have to go to Boston Thursday, so maybe you could come in for a couple of hours on Wednesday, just to fill out paperwork and learn how to work the dishwasher? Around 10?”

“See you then,” Derek said.

“But I still haven’t told you --” Eric realized Derek had ended the call.

He was still shaking his head when he saw Jack outside the front door, about to knock.

Eric hurried to open it.

“Hi,” he said. “We’re closed today.”

“I didn’t come for baked goods,” Jack said. “I came for the baker.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack tells his dad about Eric, more Falconers, some Shitty and Lardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, nothing even mildly NSFW in this chapter. Although Shitty does swear in the last section. I can't help it. That's the way he talks. Also, for that section, of you didn't read the first part of _Neighbors_ , you should know that Shitty and Lardo met Jack briefly after a game, and Jack said to his team that they were "just neighbors."

Jack picked up his phone for the third time in five minutes, tapped his mother’s icon, then put it down.

It would make sense to talk with his mother first. She had always loved him unconditionally, letting him crawl in her bed when he was small and his father was away so much. When he used to tell her everything, and nothing he could say shocked her. When his pudgy little self seemed to elicit nothing but delight on her face and in her voice.

But that was before. Before hockey became the driving force in his life -- well, not hockey itself, but the need to be the best at hockey. Then she told him he didn’t need to be the best, and he didn’t believe her, and he stopped telling her so much because he knew she wouldn’t understand.

Before he went away to prove himself, fought his demons, and lost.

They’d rebuilt their relationship then, over the breakfast table and in therapists’ offices: he guilty over his failure and her fear, she guilty that she hadn’t somehow known what he tried so hard to keep from her.

She loved him unconditionally still, but now the delight in her expression was always tinged with worry. When he told her about new people in his life, her thoughts first went to how badly they could hurt him, he knew.

He would fight to protect Eric from any enemy, but he didn’t want to start by defending him from his mother’s fear.

So. Papa, then. Papa who taught him to play, taught him to fight for himself and for anyone else who needed him. Papa whom he’d tried so hard to make proud. He had done it in the end, but not without a fall into the abyss along the way. Papa said he was more proud of Jack for climbing out of the abyss than for anything he accomplished on the ice, but Jack knew he wished it wasn’t so. Wished he’d never have to wonder whether his son would be able to stand beside him again.

It was odd, Jack thought. If he was the kind of man -- if he’d been the kind of teenager -- to blame his parents for his problems, he probably would have laid the blame at the feet of his father, his hero, the one against whom he could never measure up. But he never had blamed Papa. Papa had never made him feel like they were in a competition; Jack had done that all himself.

Maybe because of that, Papa didn’t blame himself, at least not after those first fraught days when he was still in hospital, and Papa didn’t peer so much into the corners of Jack’s life, looking for the bogeyman hiding behind the curtains or under the bed.

So. Papa.

“Hello, Papa?” Jack said when his father answered.

“Jack? How are you? Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine, Papa,” Jack said. “I just wanted to talk to you about when you visit next week. Were you planning to stay with me or get a hotel room?” “I haven’t really talked to your mother about it, but we’ll be there for a few days, so probably a hotel,” his father said. “Why? Do you have plans besides the team stuff?”

“Umm, sort of,” Jack said, biting his lip and grateful that his father couldn’t see him blush. “I sort of met someone.”

“Really?” his father sounded pleased. “What’s her name? How did you meet? How long ago? Will you introduce us when we’re there?”

“Yes, really,” Jack said, trying not to sound like petulant child. “His name is Eric. We met in the building -- by the elevator. He lives down the hall. We met before the holidays, but we’ve only been dating a few weeks. And I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

Jack’s father waited a beat before saying anything, then said, “And we’d love to meet him. Is he the baker fellow you mentioned at Christmas?”

“I don’t remember talking about him, but I don’t know any other bakers,” Jack said. “So yes, I guess. Could you do me one more favor?”

“What is it?”

“Could you tell Maman for me?” Jack asked. 

“I can, but she’ll still want to talk to you about it,” Jack’s father said. “But tell me about him, because you know she’s going to ask.”

*******************

Eric’s body ached. And no one even hit him.

They’d taken advantage of a rare afternoon off for the Falconers the day before they headed off for a short road trip and invited a few of Jack’s teammates to play with them. 

Eric had specifically asked for the ones he knew best -- Tater and Marty -- and then agreed to include the others who’d gone out with them. Snowy meant they had a goalie, and that left Guy and Thirdy.

“Perfect,” Jack said. “We can play three-on-three, plus Snowy in goal.”

“And you’ll remind them not to check me?” Eric asked.

“If you want, but really, this is just for fun. George would have our heads if we did anything where anyone might get hurt,” Jack said. “I promise.”

“I think maybe you don’t understand the problem with me and checking,” Eric said. “At my first Samwell practice, Ransom bumped into me -- not even a proper check -- and I fainted. And it happened again and again. They wanted to make a play out of it.”

“But Eric, it couldn’t have stayed like that,” Jack said. “You played all four years, right?”

“It did get better, a bit,” Eric said. “Ransom and Holster helped me practice, and I learned not to faint, but it always terrified me. Especially after I did get hit and I was concussed and had to beg for extra time or I would have failed all my classes.”

“If it was that bad, why did you keep playing?” Jack asked.

“Because the parts that weren’t getting hit? I loved those. I loved skating fast and stealing the puck and passing and the way it sounded when it hit my stick and scoring,” Eric said. “And I loved the way the team was like a family. And I needed my scholarship. So I would have done anything to keep playing, as long as it didn’t kill me.”

“Well, we’ll just do those parts, then,” Jack said, with a soft smile. “Except the scholarship.”

The day came, and Jack brought Eric to the rink a little early so he could work off some of his excess nerves on figure skating. Eric planned to finish and change into hockey gear before anyone else got there.

He didn’t count on everyone else arriving a full half-hour early. When he finished his last spin and the music ended, they applauded and he saw Jack standing with six hockey players, all cheering.

“That’s really something,” Marty said. “I can see why you wanted to compete.”

“Yes, you look like the skaters in Russia who go to Olympics,” Tater said.

“Close, but not that close,” Eric said, and shrugged. “Want to play some hockey?”

Eric joined the guys in the locker room to suit up, and realized that he had missed this camaraderie. They were joking and teasing and goofing off almost like Samwell team. Marty suggested they separate Jack and Eric, because they’d already practiced together, but before Eric could even protest, Jack stepped in.

“Nope,” he said. “All of us play and practice together all the time. Bittle’s never played with anyone but me. Besides, I want to show off what he can do.”

So it ended up with Jack, Eric and Guy against Tater, Marty and Thirdy. Snowy defended the single goal, trying to stop shots from both teams.

Before they headed onto the ice, Eric realized that his helmet still had a full-face shield. “If you have a screwdriver I can take it off,” he offered.

“No, leave it on,” Jack said. “It’s fine. If nothing else, it will remind the guys that they should be careful. Kind of like a no-contact jersey.”

Then the game started, using the full ice so Eric could use his speed to best advantage, Jack feeding him pass after pass, skating around Marty and Tater and burying the puck in the back of the net.

The first time, Snowy smiled.

He didn’t smile the second time, and nearly snarled the third time.

“Somebody want to stop him?” he called out in Tater’s direction.

“How?” Tater asked.

Eric just smiled.

Defense was harder for him. Just because the other players were trying not to hit him didn’t mean they’d be able to stop if he skated in front to cut him off, and while he had an active stick, he -- and his stick -- were short enough that the bigger players could keep the puck away from his poke checks. When they saw him coming, that was.

By the end of the game, Jack, Guy and Eric were completing tic-tac-toe passes around the ice to get shots on goal. On their possessions, Marty, Tater and Thirdy were definitely attacking Eric as the weak link, but not weak enough to make it easy for them.

In the end, Jack and Eric’s team won 5-3, and for the second time that day, Eric found an audience. Poots and George were standing by the boards as Eric was congratulated by everyone, even the other team.

Tater enveloped him in a hug and said, “Next time, you play on my side.” Snowy offered a fist bump, and a “Sneaky shot you've got.”

The others clapped him on the shoulder or the back as they filed past George, who was shaking her head but had a smile on her face. “I hope none of you overdid it,” she said as the Falconers headed to the lockers.

“You must be Eric,” she said, as he approached the door. “You are pretty fast. Next time, take it a little easier on them.”

“Um, Jack?” Poots spoke up. “Could I talk to you for a minute.”

******************************

“Uh, sure,” Jack said. “Go ahead, Eric. I’ll catch up.”

Eric and George disappeared into the corridor and Jack leaned against the boards, making himself just a little shorter so that he wouldn’t tower over Poots.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

Poots was looking at the floor. He glanced up at Jack, looked down again, and said, “It looked like you were having fun out there.”

“We were,” Jack said. 

“Maybe if you do it again, can I play?” Poots said.

OK, that wasn’t what Jack was expecting. “I guess, if you want to,” Jack said. “You would have been welcome today if we knew you were interested. We were just trying to keep it kind of small, you know? It wasn’t supposed to be like a real practice or anything.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t like practice,” Poots said. “You were laughing. Your, uh, boyfriend seems cool.”

“He is,” Jack said. 

He decided now was as good a time as any to clear the air.

“That a problem for you?”

“That your boyfriend’s cool?” Poots honestly looked confused.

“That I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh! Um, no. Not at all.” Poots looked away again. “I mean, maybe I seem uncomfortable because I never really met anyone who was gay before.”

Jack groaned internally. He really didn’t want to have to do this when Eric was showering in the locker room, subjected to who knew what chirps from his teammates.

“You’ve met Eric?” he asked.

“Well, not really, except just now,” Poots said. “Why?”

“Because he’s the gay one. I’m bisexual,” Jack said. “And I’m pretty sure you have met gay people and bisexual people before. Either you just never noticed or they never wanted to tell you.”

“Anyway, I’m sorry if I’m awkward,” Poots said. “I’ll try to do better.”

“That’s OK,” Jack said. “I’m kind of the king of awkward. But if it really doesn’t bother you, why were you so flustered when Tater was on me about Eric in the locker room last week?”

Now Poots looked embarrassed again. Really, Jack wasn’t this awkward, was he?

“That wasn’t really about you and Eric,” he said. “It was -- I was thinking about my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. When do we get to meet her?”

“Natalie lives in Hamilton. Um, where I grew up. But I was thinking what it would be like if she was here, and you guys knew her, and teased us. I guess I was missing her, and thinking if she was here, I might be more a part of the team. But really missing her.”

Jack smiled. Missing someone he could understand.

“Can she come visit?” he asked. “Even for a weekend?”

Poots shook his head. “Not right now. She’s still in school, and she works weekends. Maybe spring break.”

Jack nodded, remembering that Poots was just 21. His girlfriend was probably about that age, maybe a year or two younger. The age when couples went to college and most often -- but not always -- split up.

“Well, if she comes to visit, let me know. Depending on how the schedule works, we’ll have both of you over for dinner, or I bet Eric will cook for Natalie if we have games,” Jack said. 

“That’d be really nice,” Poots said.

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to stop him from cooking, eh?”

Jack pushed himself off the wall and headed for the locker room.

When he walked through the door, he was greeted with the sight of Eric, damp and wrapped in a towel, actually giggling, bent over near the locker he was using.

“Oh, my God, Marty, that is disgusting!” he was saying. “Who would do that?”

“Euh, hi,” Jack said. 

“Hi, Jack,” Eric said, still sniggering.

“So, what’s disgusting?” Jack said, stripping out of his pads.

“The way you smell, for one thing,” Marty said. “You need a shower.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“No, Jack, they just started asking …” Bitty started laughing again.

“For DEETS,” Thirdy supplied.

“OK,” Jack said. “I mean, not really OK, but …”

“And Marty asked if you blew your nose in the shower,” Eric said, giggling a little again.

“What did you say?” Jack said.

“Well, they would know better than me, wouldn’t they?” Eric said, before turning to pull his clothes out of his bag.

“Whatever,” Jack said, stripping his base layer off and wrapping his own towel around his waist. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t blow your nose!” Marty called.

Jack turned the corner into the shower room and shook his head. This was the kind of thing he didn’t want: His teammates pushing his boyfriend for details -- personal details -- that he shouldn’t have to give. Not the nose-blowing thing (which, yeah, gross), but the way Eric answered would tell them he and Eric hadn’t showered together. Which would lead to more questions. Really, there were reasons he didn’t like to socialize too much.

He worked the lather over his body, rinsed and headed back to the changing room. He could have only been gone for five or six minutes, but there was no sign of Eric, and Marty was sitting on the bench looking contrite.

“Where’s Eric?” he asked.

“Waiting outside,” Marty said. “He seemed worried that you’d be upset with him. You looked a little angry when you headed for the shower.”

“With him?”

“Yeah, I know, you have no reason to be mad at Eric,” Marty said. “If the chirping went too far, it was us. I shouldn’t have pushed him. But, in my defense, he didn’t seem upset. He _is_ used to hockey teams. But we should have respected your boundaries too. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s OK,” Jack said. “Kind of hard for you to respect boundaries if you don’t know where they are, eh? It’s not like any of you would have been upset, and this kind of situation doesn’t come up often with me.”

“Anyway, go easy on your boy,” Marty said. “He looked kind of upset.”

_********************************_

Eric scrolled through his phone while he waited for Jack. When he first came off the ice and got to the locker room, he’d posted a message in his old Samwell team group chat, _Guess who just got a hat trick on an NHL goalie?_

His feed had blown up while he was showering and dressing. Ransom and Holster wanted to know who the goalie was and how that happened, while Shitty sent increasingly incoherent congratulations and strings of emojis. Lardo had said, _Cool, see you soon_ and sent a duckling emoji. Which made no sense, really, but Eric knew that was high praise indeed.

Fifteen minutes earlier, Eric would have been all over it, teasing Ransom and Holster and sending equally ridiculous strings of emojis to Shitty. Now, he read their messages but didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure Jack would want him to say anything that would lead anyone to the conclusion that they were more than friendly neighbors.

But friends played hockey together, his mind supplied. Everyone he’d ever played hockey with until Jack had been a friend, or teammate, or opponent. Non-boyfriend, at least. Today, there had been seven men on the ice; only Jack and he were dating, to the best of his knowledge. So who was to say he and Jack were any more than friends from a game of shinny?

Still, he shoved the phone back into his pocket.

When he looked up, Jack was coming out the door.

“Hey, Eric,” he said, speaking softly, like he was afraid he would spook Eric.

“Hey, Jack. Listen, I’m sorry if I was out of bounds,” he said. “I mean, talking about showering together. Or not showering together, I guess.”

“It’s OK,” Jack said.

“No, I could see it bothered you, and I didn’t mean for that to happen. I mean, they said they wanted deets, and I was a little afraid, but then they just asked these stupid questions about how long you take to brush your teeth at night and whether you floss before or after you brush and things like that --”

“Eric.”

“-- and it was so much less than what I was expecting, and they just seemed to assume I’d know that stuff, and it didn’t seem like I was giving away anything, but maybe it was too much --”

“Eric.”

“-- and anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Eric. I’m not mad. Not really at all, and certainly not at you,” Jack said. “I just was annoyed that they jumped all over you as soon as they got you alone. I didn’t want them to make _you_ uncomfortable. And then you seemed to be having fun with them, and, I don’t know. I just felt like it wasn’t fair, maybe, that you can barely know them and joke around like that. It took me years. But that’s not your fault, and I’m sorry if I made you think it was.”

“No, I should have known where your boundaries were,” Eric said. “At least, I shouldn’t have joined in.”

“Oh, come on, Eric, you said yourself that was pretty mild, and if it was just me, and you weren’t there, I would have been fine,” Jack said. “I guess I didn’t know how comfortable you were, especially with how you grew up.”

“I was out to my team for almost the entire four years I played at Samwell,” Eric said gently. “I may not have dated much, but that didn’t stop anyone from chirping me. And I was glad they did, usually, because it meant I was actually one of them. I wasn’t just the gay guy they sort of tolerated. And for a little bit, it kind of felt like that.”

“Until I ruined it,” Jack said.

“No, honey,” Eric said. “Don’t think that way. You’re allowed to have feelings, and I want you to tell me. I won’t say I won’t ever joke around with them again, but I’ll try to keep it less personal. Everything all right with Poots?”

“Uh, yeah. I think he really just wanted to tell me about his girlfriend.”

“Really?”

“He misses her, and I guess hearing people talk about you and me reminds him.” Jack shrugged. “I told him if she comes to visit we’d invite them for dinner.”

“Speaking of dinner, are you up to meeting Shitty and Lardo? Or do you just want to go home? I can cancel.”

“No, we’re just going to Lardo’s apartment, right? I can do that. I feel like I’ve been keeping you from your friends.”

************************************

Jack knew spending time with Eric’s friends was the right thing to do. Eric had gone out with his friends, baked for them, played hockey with them. Jack’s interactions with Eric’s friends had been limited to brief after-game greetings, ordering food at the bakery and a conversation with Lardo where she basically threatened to end him if he hurt Eric any more.

And then she left him alone with Eric, and that led to the conversation where they confirmed their feelings for each other so … yeah, he owed a lot to Lardo. Even if he had no doubt that she could and would end him, even at a foot shorter and probably less than half his weight, if he did anything to hurt Eric. That was cool. Jack would want to kill anyone who hurt Eric too.

But going just now, after Jack’s minor freak-out, well, he really would have rather gone home and curled up on the couch with Eric just to make sure everything really was all right between them.

“Hey, are you sure you’re OK?” Eric asked, pulling Jack from his thoughts as they drove towards Lardo’s apartment.

“Just wondering whether Shitty will be wearing pants,” Jack said, drawing on the stories Eric had told him from his time at Samwell.

Eric laughed.

“Probably?” he said. “Law school’s done wonders for him in the conforming-to-social-norms department. But he says spending time with Lardo is his chance to be free, so you never know.”

Shitty was in fact wearing pants. They were red flannel pajama pants, covered in white and hot pink hearts. He paired them with a bright orange crop top which gave Jack a good view of more skin than he wanted to see when he leaned down to grab Eric in the middle and hoist him up in a hug.

“God, Bits, I've missed you,” Shitty said. “Please tell me that man you brought with you has a pie in that box.”

“‘Course not,” Eric said, smoothing his shirt after Shitty put him down. 

At Shitty’s murderous look, Eric laughed and said, “He has two pies. One for tonight and one for you to take back to Cambridge. I mean, come on, who do you think you're talking to?”

Shitty beamed.

“Bitty, you are the absolute best.”

Jack tucked the pie boxes into the crook of his left arm and stepped forward, right hand extended.

“Hello,” he said. “My name’s Jack.”

Shitty looked him up and down, and in a much more formal voice than Jack had heard him use so far, he said, “We’ve met.”

Jack pulled his hand back and said, “I know. But I wasn't at my best, and I was hoping we could pretend that night never happened.”

“Come on, Bits, let's take the pies in the kitchen and get the food,” Lardo said. “It's from that little Middle Eastern place.”

Eric stepped forward to take the pies, then turned to face Shitty. “Be nice,” he said. “I told you we worked that out. It was just a big misunderstanding.”

Once he followed Lardo to the kitchen, Shitty took a seat on the couch and motioned for Jack to take the only chair.

“It was my fault,” Jack said. 

“Well, I know that,” Shitty said. “Not like Bitty to deny a friend.”

“No,” Jack agreed.

“But he can be a passive aggressive piece of work,” Shitty said.

Jack guffawed so suddenly he nearly fell off the chair.

“Yeah, he can,” Jack agreed. “But I haven't seen him doing it without reason.”

“Anyway, I just wanted to say Bitty seems really happy lately,” Shitty said. “So good for you.”

“That's not … what I was expecting,” Jack said. 

“Nah, brah, I'm not going to give you a shovel talk or anything,” Shitty said. “Bitty can take care of himself. He's a tough little fucker. And he's got Lardo.”

“Well, thanks,” Jack said. “So, he says you're in your last year of law school? What are you going to do when you finish?”

“Not sure yet,” Shitty said. “I want to work for a group that promotes social justice and human rights, but I'm not sure who or where yet. I also have an offer to clerk for a federal judge, which would look good on the resume and connections which could help later, but I don't know yet.”

Jack looked him up and down. “Really?”

“Brah. I clean up well.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Zimmermanns come to visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Bob and Alicia. Alicia knows how to get Eric talking. Bad Bob isn't bad at all. Very sweet and fluffy.  
> Still not beta'd, so please tell me if you see something that needs to be fixed!

Eric ducked into the small bathroom at Sugar ‘n’ Spice to splash water on his face, comb his hair and change shirts. He tugged on the ends of his red bow tie, setting it at a jaunty angle, and panicked.

Should he have gone with a blue tie for the Falconers? It wasn’t strictly a team event, but the opportunity to meet and greet several Falconers was the main draw for the evening.

He looked at his image in the mirror over the sink critically. His button-down was pale blue. He had a navy blue jacket to put on once he was sure everything was set up. A blue tie would be too much blue. The red made a nice contrast, and matched the warmer tones of his complexion. Besides, Jack was wearing a blue tie -- at least, if he’d gone with the clothes he’d asked Eric to pick out. Definitely too early in the relationship for matching ties.

Eric ran through his final checklist. He’d dispatched Derek with the rental van half an hour ago; it was time for him to call a ride service and get there to make sure everything was done right.

He’d told Derek how he wanted everything, even drawn him a diagram. Then he said, “You know what? Just put the cupcakes on the platters. I’ll deal with the rest when I get there.”

He picked up two small bakery boxes tied with blue ribbons -- one with cookies for Marty’s daughter and one with two mini-pies for Jack’s parents -- grabbed the garment bag with his jacket and his rolled up apron and waited by the curb.

The venue was a bowling alley.

Eric had known that, in theory. It was a bowling fundraiser, with proceeds going to Marty’s foundation, which funds sports and arts in Providence schools. 

But he hadn’t expected the multicolored worn carpet, the clashing walls, the echo in the cavernous space. Was a tie at all too much?

The foundation rented the whole place, and there were tables for Eric’s desserts set up with tablecloths in Falconers’ blue. The tables near the actual lanes also had tablecloths, along with tealights to cast a romantic (in a bowling alley?) glow.

When Eric arrived, there were still only a handful of people: Marty and his wife, Gabby; Jamie, who helped Marty set up the event; bartenders and servers from the caterer setting up finger food.

Derek was unpacking cupcakes onto large platters, using the ones frosted in yellow to make a surprisingly attractive sunburst pattern in a background of blue.

“Nice job,” Eric said.

Derek just “hmmed” and kept working.

Eric looped the strap of his apron over his head and started using his stands and extra table linens to create a multi-level display for the pies, putting small cardboard signs out to identify the flavors.

“Eric,” Marty said, approaching with his wife. “You really made a pie with potatoes? I thought you were joking.”

“Sweet potatoes,” Eric said. “You’ve really never had sweet potato pie? It’s a classic.”

“I’ll try it tonight,” Marty promised. “Have you met Gabby yet?”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Eric said, taking her extended hand.

““Marty keeps talking about Jack Zimmermann’s new young man, and how amazing your baking is,” Gabby said. “He never manages to bring any home, though.”

“He should have told me!” Eric said. “I would have sent something for you. Wait. Here. Jack said you have a little girl? These are for her. And if you want something in particular, just let me know and I’ll make it for you.”

“You really don’t have to do that, Eric,” Gabby said. “But maybe I’ll stop by the bakery this week? It’s not really in our neighborhood, but I can get there when Ava is in preschool.”

“Eric -- there you are! Is there anything else you need?”

“Oh, hi, Jamie,” Eric said. “I think we’re set. Wait -- Jack said that a Jamie was with him at the hospital a bit ago. Was that you?”

“Guilty,” Jamie said. “I work part time for the Falcs and part time for the foundation.”

“That makes sense,” Eric said. “He said you knew who I was.”

“He also said you might help him with social media,” Jamie said. “Would you be up for that?”

“Sure, if he is,” Eric said. “But Jack’s a pretty private person.”

“Speaking of …” Marty said, and nodded towards the door.

Eric looked up and spotted Jack, gorgeous as always in his suit, flanked by an older man who had an uncanny resemblance to his boyfriend and one of the most glamorous women Eric had ever seen.

“Hide me!” he said to Marty, actually trying to inch his way behind him. “I’m not ready! I still have my apron on!”

Marty chuckled.

“I think it’s OK, _ouais?”_ Marty said. “You are still working. And they know what you do.”

 

********************

Jack didn't even bother to school his face from breaking into a smile when he saw Eric, although he knew he blushed when he caught his mother looking at him.

When Eric caught sight of Jack and his parents -- what was he trying to do? Hide behind Marty? -- he smiled back, then scooted a little further back.

“So that's him?” Alicia said, definitely not looking directly at Eric because staring would be rude. “He is cute.”

Jack chuckled. Eric undoubtedly was cute, but he hated when people described him that way.

“Don't let him hear you say that,” Jack said. “He’ll say, and I quote, ‘Baby ducks are cute.’”

“I didn't mean baby-duck cute,” Alicia said. “I meant hot-boy cute.”

“Maman!” Jack said, despite his wholehearted agreement on that score.

“You'd better introduce us,” Bob broke in, “or something unfortunate is going to happen to that pie. I think he's trying to cut it, but he keeps looking over here.”

Eric was alone, Marty and Gabby having moved off to greet a few other early arrivals. Now would be as good a time as any, Jack thought, heading to the dessert table.

“Jack, hello!” Eric said brightly, trying but really not carrying off the illusion that he had just noticed the Zimmermanns.

“Hi, Eric,” Jack said, stopping beside him and resting a hand on his back. “Maman, Papa, this is Eric. Eric, these are my parents.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Zimmermann,” Eric said. 

“Please, call me Alicia,” she said. “Mrs. Zimmermann is my mother-in-law. But she'll probably want you to call her grand-mere.”

“Maman!” Jack was mortified, but Eric seemed to take his mother’s presumption in stride. Until he said, “And you, too, uh, Mr. Jack's Dad,” and turned beet red. “I'm sorry, I meant Mr. Zimmermann, sir.”

“Bob,” Jack’s father said. “Did you make all these?” he asked, indicating the dessert table. “It all looks delicious.” 

“Yes, well mostly,” Eric said. “I have a couple of assistants.”

“Who do exactly what you tell them when it comes to baking,” Jack said. “How's the new one doing?”

“Derek? It turns out he has an eye for display,” Eric said, glancing at the cupcake platters. 

Derek glanced up, saw the Zimmermanns looking his direction, and immediately turned their way.

“Alicia Zimmermann!” he said, “And Bad Bob!”

“I was trying to avoid that,” Eric muttered.

Jack grinned. “It's OK. He was charmed,” he whispered.

Not quietly enough. 

“It really is fine,” Bob said. “People have been calling me that since before Jack was born, and I'm fairly certain they don't mean anything negative. But I'd far rather be known as Jack’s father.”

Jack wanted to spend the evening following Eric around, watching him refresh the tables, adjust the display of desserts, and engage anyone who showed even a passing interest in heartfelt discussions about pastry.

But Marty hadn’t invited him to spend a few hours mooning over his boyfriend. Marty had invited him to help raise money for his foundation by being a visible and accessible representative of the Falconers. So he spent most of the night bowling with donors.

It was, surprisingly, not so bad. Nowhere near as bad as the cocktail parties he was sometimes roped into, where there was nothing to do but pretend to drink and make small talk, which always left Jack feeling like he was an awkward pre-teen being dragged to his parents’ events. Here, there was something to do, something competitive even, if not seriously so. Of course, he wasn’t trying to beat the people who paid far too much to bowl just so they could meet the Falconers, but he and the teammates who were bowling with their own groups of donors on other lanes weren’t shy about sharing their scores.

His father, now a fixture at Falconers’ team events, joined in the joking and teasing, and seemed pleased to be asked for as many signatures and selfies as most of the current hockey players. Some of the women approached his mother as well, but more than once, he saw her wander away from her lane and speak to Eric. What was going on there? They looked happy enough, anyway. He couldn’t worry about it now.

When the games were over, the silent auction closed, the food nearly all gone, and the guests on their way out, Jack went to the dessert table and pretended to be dithering over the choice between the last piece of sweet potato pie and a red velvet cupcake.

Eric was boxing up the leftovers for Nurse to deliver to a soup kitchen in the morning and packing the stands and serving equipment he’d brought with. He’d taken off the blue jacket he’d slipped on when guests arrived and put the apron on over his party clothes, and judging by the flush over his cheekbones, Marty or Gabby had made sure he knew he was welcome to drink or two.

“I’d call this a success,” Jack said. “Everyone I bowled with couldn’t stop talking about the desserts.”

“Maybe because you wouldn’t let them stop?” Eric grinned. “No, you’re right. I’m surprised there’s not more left over. And Jamie made sure I had a stack of business cards out, and they’re almost gone, too. I really have to thank Marty and Gabby.”

“Gabby’s the brains of the outfit, so I’d start there,” Jack said.

“Your parents are still here, right?” Eric said. “I have something for them.”

Jack shook his head. “Of course you do. They’re over there, waiting for me. Can I drive you home, too? I was going to drop them at the hotel on my way.”

“I think so. Derek was going to take the van home, and then one of them will return it after they drop the food off in the morning. Can I take this box in your car? And then you might have to drop me at the bakery at some point so I don’t have to take it on the bus.”

“I’m pretty sure I can handle that,” Jack said. “So what you and my mother talking about?”

“Recipes, food, stuff like that,” Eric said. 

“So not about me?” Jack said.

“Maybe a little,” Eric said. “But all good, I promise.”

*******************************

Of course Jack had noticed Alicia coming over and chatting him up, Eric thought.

And of course Jack was a little worried about what they might be talking about.

If the situation had been reversed -- If Jack had been in Madison, introduced as his boyfriend, and he kept walking in on them huddled up in the kitchen -- yeah, he’d be nervous. There was the potential for major embarrassment of the harmless kind, of course (he would just have to show Jack those figure skating pictures himself), but she also knew the things that he hadn’t yet shared with Jack.

He’d told Jack about being locked in the utility closet overnight in middle school, of course, but he’d tried to pass it off as a joke or a prank. Kind of “can you believe what kids think of to do?” Judging by the look on Jack’s face, he hadn’t been entirely successful, but Jack hadn’t pressed him to talk about it any more.

His mother, on the other hand, had come to get him from the janitor’s office in the basement of the school, seen his tear-streaked face and bloodied hands, begged him to speak when it hurt because his throat was so hoarse, tried and tried to get him to tell her who had done this to him.

All of them, he’d wanted to say. But he never had.

In the same way, Eric reasoned, Jack’s mother would know things that had not shared with Eric. He’d told Eric that he’d suffered from anxiety since he was a teenager, he’d overdosed on prescribed medication mixed with alcohol, he’d had a relationship with Kent Parson. But he hadn’t dwelled on any of that, and Eric hadn’t pushed.

Alicia, though, would know so much more. What Jack was like when he woke up after the overdose, how the relationship with Kent ended -- it sounded like Kent was drafted and Jack went to rehab and they just never acknowledged after that, from what Jack (hadn’t) said -- how hard it was for Jack to rebuild his life and achieve his dreams.

Eric had most certainly not asked about any of that. But when Alicia came over and asked how he learned to bake, he’d told her about rolling out dough on the child-sized table in MooMaw’s kitchen, and asked what Jack had liked to do when he was in kindergarten. (“He loved when his father would take him on the ice,” she said. “Anything else?” Eric asked). When she came over to compliment his maple-crusted apple pie, he told her it was Jack’s favorite, and what were his favorite sweets when he was a child?

It was on her third and last visit to the dessert table that Alicia said what he was pretty sure she’d wanted to say all night. Eric had been standing to the side, pleased with how fast the tables were emptying, enjoying a glass of wine and a feeling of accomplishment. Alicia had her own wine, and she came to stand next to him and allowed her gaze to settle on Jack, who’d removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves to bowl.

“I haven’t seen him this happy in years,” she said. “You know this isn’t a fling for him, yes?”

“I know,” Eric said. “I can’t say I’ve ever been asked to meet someone’s parents before, so. I guess you could say it’s not a fling for me either.”

“Jack isn’t the easiest person to get to know,” Alicia continued. “He tends to want to protect himself, protect his heart, and that can be a good thing, especially when the whole world seems to want a piece of him.”

“OK,” Eric said, not sure where she was going. 

“Before we arrived, when he told me about your relationship, it felt like he wanted to protect you, too,” Alicia said. “That says a lot about how he feels about you.”

There wasn’t really a question there, but Eric nodded anyway.

“I understand,” he said.”I really do. And if it’s any help, I’d do anything I could to protect him.”

*************************

Jack listened to his father as he drove, occasionally dropping in a comment or response to his father’s thoughts about the team this year.

Half an ear, at least, was was the conversation from the back seat, where his mother and Eric were chattering away happily.

“My mama’s one of your biggest fans,” Eric was saying. “When she found out my neighbor was an NHL player, she honestly couldn’t have cared less. When she found out it was your son -- let’s just say I’m under orders to get a picture with you and find out your favorite kind dessert or baked goods while you’re here. She’ll probably insist on sending something to you in care of Jack.”

“But I thought you were a baker?” Alicia inquired.

“Oh, I am, of course,” Eric said. “But I learned a lot of what I know from her and MooMaw. I’m sure I can do a greater variety of things now, and I might be better at developing a recipe to meet a certain need, but when it comes to their specialties, I would not put my work up against either of them.”

“And I must admit I’m a little surprised,” Alicia went on. “I think most women of your mother’s generation were more, well, interested in Bobby. He had more sex appeal that any player in the NHL in his day. And, to be honest, I always heard from more male fans. Frankly, an offer to send me homemade baked goods would have been kind of refreshing -- although I doubt I could have indulged much when I was still modeling.”

“Well, she did know who Ba-- Bob was,” Eric said. “When I mentioned you were Jack’s mother. But I think it’s only because he married you. She follows football, of course, but she’s never had any time to spare for any other sport. She liked you because she said you had the most elegant style she’d ever seen.”

“That’s very kind,” Alicia said. “And why football?”

“Oh, my father’s the high school football coach in our town,” Eric said. “And football’s kind of like religion down there. All ‘Friday Night Lights’ and all that. So of course she goes to the games and knows the plays, and she’s kind of like a team mom to the boys on the team.”

“But you were a figure skater and played hockey, Jack said?”

“Yes, ma’am. Football … really wasn’t my thing.”

Without glancing back, Jack knew the self-deprecating look down at his own body Eric would have given as he said that. He’d heard variations of this conversation a few times now, and Eric always did the same thing, communicating, “Come on, now, at my size?” and effectively shutting down that line of conversation without saying a word.

The thing was, there were some smaller football players, especially at the high school level, just like there were some smaller hockey players. Eric might not be really large, but he was athletic -- strong and coordinated and speedy -- so he should have been an asset to a football team. There must be more behind his decision not to join in the family worship at the altar of football.

“Well, you’ll have to let us know when you’re parents are coming up to see you,” Alicia was saying to Eric. “Maybe Bobby and I could make arrangements to come for a day or two and meet them. I’m sure they’re lovely, with a son like you.”

“Well, ma’am, I’m sure my mama would love to meet you too,” Eric said. “But to be honest, it can be a little difficult to get Coach above the Mason-Dixon line.”

“Coach?” Alicia was momentarily confused.

“My father, I mean.”

“Maman, we’re here,” Jack said, pulling into the driveway in front of the hotel.

“Oh! Would you boys like to come in for a drink?” she asked.

“We really can’t,” Jack said.

“I have to be up in four and half hours to open the bakery,” Eric explained. “But I’m coming to the game tomorrow night. Maybe I’ll see you there?”

“Eric, you’re sitting with them,” Jack said. “Unless you got tickets I don’t know about? I just got three together.”

“We’ll look forward to it,” Bob said. “I’m for bed, too. See you for lunch, Jack?”

“Of course. Je t’aime, Maman. Je t’aime, Papa.”

*********************

When Eric heard his alarm go off, he seriously thought about reconsidering a career in the baking business.

It felt like he had barely closed his eyes. Jack had driven straight home, and Eric had given him a lingering kiss goodnight before entering his apartment and gently -- but firmly -- closing the door behind him before Jack could ask him to stay over. Because if Jack asked, he'd have a hard time saying no, and if he ended up in bed with Jack, he would definitely not go right to sleep.

At least on Saturdays the rhythm was a little different. The early rush wasn't so intense, and traffic was distributed more evenly throughout the morning. More people ordered sweet treats, although Eric made sure there were a few healthier options available. 

And Saturdays meant Chowder in the morning, just like usual. It wasn't as though he didn't like Derek or Dex; Dex, especially, could follow a recipe well enough to actually help with the baking, and he could keep nearly any appliance working. But neither of them had the simple cheerfulness and eagerness that Chris seemed to bring to every shift. Eric was relying on that energy to get him through the morning.

“So Nursey says he met Bad Bob Zimmermann,” Chris said. “Got a selfie and everything. Pretty sweet.”

Eric smiled. Another employee might be jealous that a coworker -- one who just started, no less -- was the one to rub shoulders with celebrities and sports heroes, but there was no bitter undertone to Chowder’s words. He seemed genuinely happy for his friend.

“I was gonna ask -- do you want him to tweet it and tag the bakery?” Chowder asked. “People might like it.”

Eric thought a minute. A selfie of an employee -- Derek had been wearing his apron with the logo, he thought -- with a guest at a benefit surely would not imply anything about the relationship of the bakery manager and the guest’s son. Would it look unprofessional? Not if Jack’s dad -- Bad Bob -- _Bob --_ looked like he was happy to do it, and Eric was pretty sure Bob had been fine with it.

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “Did it look good?”

“Yeah, you know Nurse,” Chowder said. “He’s always got the artsy vibe going.”

“Then sure,” Eric said. “If you don’t mind asking him to. He’s not obligated to, of course.”

“Cool,” Chowder said. “He should be up soon. I dropped off the food and returned the van on my way in so he could sleep in.”

Sure enough, just before 11, Eric saw a notification on the bakery’s twitter account and pulled up the pic. It was actually pretty perfect: Derek looked artfully chill, as he would say, next to a smiling Bob Zimmermann, and the table of pies and cupcakes were in the background.

The text said, _Meeting Bad Bob Zimmermann. Sweet perk of my new job at @Sugarnspicebakery._

Eric immediately quoted the tweet, adding _Glad to have you, @nurseyd! Nice to meet you last night, @bbzimmermann!_

Because, just maybe, he’d Twitter-stalked Jack’s dad. And had been surprised that Bob’s verified account used a name that had to be based on “Bad Bob.” Apparently he really didn’t mind.

He was even more surprised when he got another Twitter notification 20 minutes later, from @bbzimmermann. _Always happy to help out @stsebastienfoundation. Dessert from @sugarnspicebakery was a bonus!_

He replied _@bbzimmermann, you’re welcome to come sample our baked goods anytime!_

After that, he turned off Twitter notifications because there were too many to keep up with. If the bakery hadn’t been on hockey fans’ radar before, it was now, with retweets and likes from the official Falconers account, the St. Sebastien Foundation account and several of the players’ accounts.

Still, it wasn’t translating to extra business today. Lunchtime came, but on the weekend, there wasn’t much of a noon rush. Just more people wanting coffee and pastry.

Eric found himself wondering whether he should go for a quick run after work like he planned or just go home and sleep until it was time to leave for the Falcs game. He supposed he should touch base with Jack to make sure his ticket would be at will-call under his own name; of Jack had just gotten three together, would they give them all to his father? And had Jack considered that his parents would undoubtedly be shown on the stadium scoreboard, and likely on TV too? What would people make of Eric? Maybe they’d zoom in tightly enough that no one would realize Eric was with them.

Jack would be napping when Eric got off work and came home. So maybe a quick run, try to meet up with Jack before he left -- that way he could make him his PB&J -- and then nap for an hour or so before it was time to order a ride.

He wished he could be napping now. Instead, he was sitting at his desk, checking inventory and supply orders for next week while Dex and Nursey, who wasn’t really supposed to be working, took care of the counter. Chowder was at a table studying.

He was expecting Dex with a load of dishes when the kitchen door opened, but when he looked up, Jack was standing there with the box of pie plates, servers and other supplies he’d left in Jack’s car.

“Oh my gosh! You didn’t have to bring those in!” Eric said. “I could have gotten them. I just forgot this morning.”

“It wasn’t a problem at all,” Jack said. “I had lunch with my parents and they wanted to come by anyway. You’re closed the next two days, so this was their only chance this trip.”

“Wait -- your parents are out there?” Eric stood and smoothed his apron.

“Uh, yes,” Jack said. “They were trying to decide what to buy.”

Eric barrelled through the door to the counter.

“Your money’s no good here,” he said to the Zimmermanns. “Seriously, with the tweets and all? With that publicity, you can have anything you want, on the house.”

“I insist,” Bob said, “Just two servings of that blueberry crumble, and two small coffees. I’d like a maple-apple pie, but maybe not until we go back Tuesday.”

“Fine,” Eric said. “Ring up the crumble and the coffee, Dex. But we’re closed until Tuesday, so I’ll make your pie for you Monday and that’s a gift from me.”

“Fine,” Bob said, mimicking Eric’s tone.

“And you’ll have to excuse the fact that we used frozen blueberries,” Eric said. “I’d rather use local produce frozen than fruit that’s been flown halfway around the world, but it doesn’t taste quite the same.”

“I’m sure it’s delicious,” Alicia said, sniffing appreciatively when Eric handed her the plate with the warmed crumble on it.

“How was the skate this morning?” Eric asked Jack.

“Fine,” Jack said. “Nothing unusual. Same lines for tonight.”

“I meant to ask, is my ticket at will-call, or will your parents have it?” Eric asked. “Or did they even tell you?”

“We have it,” Bob said. “We stopped and picked them up earlier. Can we pick you up before the game? It starts at 7:30, so say, 6:15?”

“Sure, if you want,” Eric said. “Do you have a car here, even? I mean, you’re visiting. It seems like I should pick you up.”

“No, we’ll have Jack’s car,” Alicia said. “We were just going to drop him at home for a few hours. Then we’ll run him to the arena later, and come back for you. It’ll give us something to do.”

“All right, I guess,” Eric said. “If you’re sure y’all don’t mind.”

Eric moved a couple of steps away as he wiped down the counter.

“Jack,” he said, “could I get you to come over here and tell me which jam you want today?”

“They’re all good, Eric,” Jack said, stepping closer to him. “But you know I really like the strawberry.”

“That’s fine then,” Eric said. Then he dropped his voice and said, “I don’t have to sit with your parents if you don’t want. Someone might see me and wonder who I am.”

“So?” Jack shrugged. “I said I wasn’t going to do a statement saying I was coming out, not that I was going to hide our relationship. If people ask questions because you sit with my parents, that’s on them.”

Seeing that his parents were finished, Jack leaned across the counter and kissed Eric on the cheek. It was a brief thing, just a fleeting brush of Jack’s lips against the side of his face, then Jack was leaving, tossing a, “See you after the game” over his shoulder and nodding to Chowder, still studying at a table by the window.

“See you before the game,” Bob said, as though nothing unusual had happened, and he and Alicia followed Jack out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric and Jack spend more time with Jack's parents, and with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a little longer. Still very fluffy, although there are signs of mild trouble ahead. Nothing really angsty, I promise. I need the fluff right now.

They lost.

Jack knew that was a possibility, of course. They could lose any game they played, let alone one against the defending Stanley Cup champions and his father’s old team.

Not that his father's hockey history had any bearing on it.

It was just that everything was going so well. He had Eric in his life now, and sure it was really new, but Jack felt like Eric was the missing ingredient he never knew he needed. The team had been doing well -- was still doing well, still in position for a playoff spot despite the loss. His parents and Eric were getting along famously. When the scoreboard had flashed their picture during a break in play, Eric was actually sitting between them in the box, saying something that was making both his parents smile.

With all that, it had seemed like things would continue to roll along, they'd get the win and celebrate and not have a care in the world.

Instead, they lost, and Jack was sitting in front of his locker, looking at his skate laces while the rest of the team stripped their equipment off and moved to the showers and came back and dressed.

The beat reporters had come and gone, getting their stock comments from Jack giving credit to the Pens and saying that the Falconers would have to step it up a bit. Which anyone with eyes could see.

Finally Marty clapped him on the shoulder.

“Better get moving, Jack,” he said. “Your dad’s not going to wait in the hall forever.”

Jack knew that was true, and the last thing he wanted to do was have his father come and find him sulking like an 8-year-old.

So he leaned down to untie his skates, ignoring Tater asking if Eric would be around, only to sit up and see Eric in front of him. 

“I volunteered to see how you were,” Eric said. “Your parents said they understand if you don't want to go out after this, but that they still want to see you to say goodnight.”

“OK,” Jack said. “I'm fine, or I will be. Can you tell them I'm getting in the shower and I'll be out in 10?”

“Sure,” Eric said. “We’ll be right outside. For what it’s worth, we all think you played a good game. It just didn't go your way tonight.”

Jack grunted an acknowledgment without actually agreeing, then wrapped a towel around his waist and said, “If you want to grab a nightcap with my parents you can. Don't worry about me.”

“Jack!” Eric sounded scandalized. “Of course not. We can drop them at their hotel and head home.”

Eric hesitated before continuing.

“But if you'd rather be alone, I don't have to stay with you,” Eric said. “I won't be offended.”

Not offended, but hurt, Jack realized with a sudden flash of insight. 

“No,” Jack said. “It would be good. If you stayed, I mean.”

Eric gave him a small relieved smile and left the locker room, while Jack headed to the shower, pointedly ignoring all the hockey players who were pretending they hadn't been listening.

It might have taken him longer than the 10 minutes he estimated to leave the locker room, the last player out, but only by a minute or two. Still, Eric was sitting on the floor, his father was leaning against the wall, and his mother was looking at both of them with a slightly exasperated expression.

“What time did you say you got up this morning, Eric?” she was asking.

“4:15,” Eric said. “But I took a nap after work.”

“How long of a nap?” she asked.

“An hour? Maybe a little more,” Eric said.

More like a little less, Jack thought, secretly pleased that he could tell when Eric was stretching the truth to ease the conversation along. 

Jack let the door close behind him and his father looked up.

“Last one out,” he said. “You always were.”

There was affection in his father’s voice, not annoyance, so Jack just grinned sheepishly. “Old habits, eh? Let’s get going. Looks like I have to get this one home.”

Eric scrambled to his feet and said, “I’m fine, really.”

At Alicia’s pointed look, he said, “It’s just that it’s been two late nights in a row for me. Usually I’m in bed by 10.”

This time, when they got to Jack’s car, his parents took the back seat, leaving Eric to ride next to Jack. When Eric tried to protest, Bob said, “Please, Eric. Can’t a man want to sit with his beautiful wife?”

After Jack had the car in gear, he reached over to put his hand near Eric’s seat. Eric took it and interlaced their fingers, and Jack felt the remnants of his bad mood fall away.

What he’d said in the locker room was true: The Penguins were good. Sid had been on fire, and Muzzer had been on his game all night. The Falconers would have to find a way to get better if they wanted to challenge for the title this year. But they were close. If this game, decided by one goal late in the third, had shown anything, it was that the Falconers could play with the league’s elite this year. They just had to keep pushing forward.

They got to the hotel, and as his parents climbed out of the car, his mother said, “It seems we’ll be seeing you in the morning. Eric said he’d make brunch for us. Is 10 all right, or should we make it 10:30?”

“Let’s do 10:30,” Jack said. “I know Eric likes to sleep in when he can.”

“How about you just call when you’re up and ready for company?” his father offered.

“We’ll do that,” Jack said.

****************************

Eric raised his arms above his head and extended his toes as far as they would go and stretched.

Jack was lying next to him, on his side, watching Eric.

“I wish we didn’t have to get up at all,” Eric said. “This bed is just too comfortable.”

It was far more comfortable than the old double bed Eric had in his apartment. That bed wasn’t awful, but that was about the best that could be said for it. Jack’s bed managed to be soft and supportive at the same time. It was big enough that they could share and not be crowded, although Eric found that when he woke up and Jack was still in bed, they were inevitably wound around one another. Even the sheets and the duvet -- good Lord, the duvet -- enhanced the experience. But the best part, Eric thought loyally, was being next to Jack.

“So you slept well?” Jack said.

“Before or after we woke up earlier?” Eric said. “Never mind. Yes. What time is it?”

“Almost 9,” Jack said. “If we get up now, we can get dressed and start breakfast and call my parents before it gets too late.”

“We probably should,” Eric said. “By the way, was it my imagination or was that your dad telling us to go ahead and have morning sex last night?”

“Maybe,” Jack said.

“Oh my God,” Eric said. “My boyfriend’s parents know we’re having sex. And they’re OK with it?”

Jack just shrugged.

“Apparently,” he said. “You know I’m 28, right?”

“I know, I know,” Eric said. “It’s just, my parents have never even acknowledged the idea that I might have sex, y’ know, someday, with someone. The topic is just totally off the table with them. Especially since I came out to them. It was like, ‘OK, that’s fine, you’ve said your piece. Can we go back to pretending we don’t know anything about it?’ I guess I just never thought about how other people handle it.”

Jack stood and extended a hand to Eric.

“Come on,” he said. “Up you go.”

Once Eric was on his feet and collecting his clothes from where they fell the night before, Jack continued.

“My parents never really made sex something we couldn’t talk about,” he said. “I mean, when I was a kid they talked to me about safe sex and all. But when I was in juniors and Kent and I were together, I think I thought I would die before I would want them to find out. … I guess I almost did. Anyway, since then, I kind of make it a point not to keep secrets from them.”

“No, I think it’s great,” Eric said, standing awkwardly, his clothes bundled in his arms. “Really, I do. I mean, it must be hard sometimes to feel like you have to share things, but at least you know where you stand. They want you to be happy.”

“You know what would make me happy?” Jack said. “If you would get some clean clothes and come back and shower with me. I promise not to blow my nose. As for blowing anything else …”

Eric pulled on a pair of his shorts that he’d left at Jack’s, even though they almost disappeared under the T-shirt that he borrowed from Jack, and checked to make sure the coast was clear before carrying his clothes from the day before to his apartment. He dumped them in the hamper, selected clean jeans, a soft thermal henley and a button-down to go over it, and headed back to find Jack in the bathroom, adjusting the water temperature.

“Just remember,” Eric said, “we really should be calling your parents by 10.”

When the shower was done and they were both clean (and if they had to wash a second time, well, Eric would never tell), Jack made the bed and called his mother while Eric mixed batter for fresh muffins. Then he set it aside to chop vegetables for the frittata. The muffins went in the oven when the vegetables started to saute and he had a moment to start cutting fruit for the fruit salad.

“Anything I can do?” Jack asked.

“Coffee,” Eric said. “And set the table.”

Once the vegetables had cooked a bit, Eric added his beaten egg mixture and watched the frittata cook for a few minutes. When the edges were set, he put it in the oven and took out the muffins.

Eric transferred the muffins to a napkin-lined basket while he waited for the frittata to finish. (“I have a basket?” Jack asked. “You do now,” Eric said.) He had just pulled the frittata from the oven when a knock came at the door, and Jack let his parents in.

“Just in time,” Eric said. “Jack, honey, could you put the fruit and muffins on the table? And maybe ask if your parents want coffee? I just need to cut this before we eat.”

*************************

Maybe Eric was right and it was odd how comfortable he was sharing things with his parents.

Eric hadn’t said it that way, of course; he wouldn’t. He probably didn’t even think that way.

If he was honest, Jack was mildly surprised at how well Eric and his parents got along. Brunch had been a success. The food, of course, was delicious, and the conversation flowed easily.

Eric talked about growing up surrounded by football, more about college and his friends, and told stories about running the bakery.

Jack’s mother chimed in with stories about Jack that were only mildly embarrassing, as well stories about how hopeless she was in the kitchen.

“That’s what I keep Bobby around for,” she said, laughing.

“Well, I hope that’s not the only thing,” his father replied, something like a leer on his face, which … gross.

Eric asked intelligent questions about how the NHL had changed since Bob’s playing days, and what it was like to live in Montreal. (“People in Georgia have this idea of Canada being the Great White North, all year long.”) He accepted compliments on his cooking and offered to share recipes, an offer Bob eagerly accepted.

When Jack stood to clear the table, he told Eric to let him do it, since Eric had cooked, and Jack intercepted a pleased look that flashed between his parents. 

“So do you and Jack have plans for the rest of the day?” Alicia was asking as Jack walked into the kitchen.

“I’m not sure about Jack’s plans,” Eric said. “I have to go into the bakery for a few hours to get things ready for the Falconers’ breakfast tomorrow. I’ll leave the actual baking for the morning, but I want to get everything prepped.”

“Can we help?” Bob asked. “I’d like to see the kitchen of the bakery.”

“If you like,” Eric said. 

“I wanted to get some shopping done,” Alicia said.

“What can you buy in Providence that you can’t get in Montreal?” Jack asked.

“If you must know, I wanted to get you some new things,” Alicia asked. “I know you’re grown, but I’m still your mother. It looks like you need some new casual clothes.”

Eric was hiding his grin behind his coffee cup. He had made the same point -- albeit more gently -- already.

“Then Eric and I can go to the bakery while you and Jack hit the shops. If you finish early, meet us at the bakery,” Bob said. “Otherwise, we can regroup here. The doorman can let us in, right, Jack?”

Jack may have been imagining the twinkle in his father’s eye when he said that; he wasn’t imagining the smile when he answered, “That’s all right. Eric has a key.”

“For the kitchen!” Eric said. “I like to cook in Jack’s kitchen when he’s not home.”

It took another half hour or so for everyone to sort themselves out. Jack and Alicia dropped Eric and Bob off at the bakery before heading to Providence Place.

Jack wasn’t really a big fan of malls, but he had a feeling this would be the most efficient way to satisfy his mother’s need to see him properly outfitted.

“So you and Eric are serious?” his mother said as soon as Eric was out of the car.

Jack thought about how to answer. He was serious about Eric -- he wouldn’t have taken the risk of dating him, however discreetly, if he wasn’t. He was pretty sure Eric was serious about him, but they’d only been together what, less than two months? And Eric was still pretty young, although in some ways, he seemed much older than Jack had been at the same age.

“I hope so,” he finally said. “I really like him.”

“I can tell,” Alicia said. “And I think he really cares about you. But maybe you should be careful not to get ahead of yourself?”

“I know,” Jack said. “Really, I do, and I’m trying not too. If it helps, I think Eric is trying to keep things moving at … well, I was going to say a reasonable pace, but maybe just not out of control.”

“Jack, _mon coeur,_ you’ve known him two months, and he has a key to your apartment.”

“Which he uses to let himself in to prepare meals, which he leaves in the freezer for me,” Jack said. “And I've known him at least four months. Please don’t try to scare him off, _Maman.”_

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” she said. “You like him that much?” “No, I care about you that much,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t want to feel like I had to choose.”

********************

Eric had never considered what it would be like to work with the assistance of a retired hockey player.

Actually, when he thought about it in those terms, it was fine. When he thought about spending the afternoon with NHL Legend Bad Bob Zimmermann, or even worse, his boyfriend’s father, it was a different matter.

Retired hockey player it would be, then.

Once Eric got organized and had things moving, he found Bob to be surprisingly interested and helpful. He was impressed by the commercial ovens and mixers, and willing and capable when it came to hauling heavy containers of flour and sugar or putting pans on the racks in the cooler.

“We’re not actually going to bake anything today,” Eric said. “We want it fresh when people get it in the morning. But we can make the yeast dough for the cinnamon rolls and the brioche and let them rise overnight in the cooler, and get all the muffin ingredients together so in the morning we just have to dump them in the mixer.”

“So you're going to make 12 dozen pastries before breakfast? What time do you have to get here?” Bob asked.

“Dex will come help, so if we start at 5, we’ll be done in time to get everything there by 8.” Eric shrugged. “It's not that different than a normal morning, except we're closed Mondays, so I'd usually be off. And when I bake to sell things here, I don't have to have everything done at once.”

Bob watched as Eric made the sponge for the brioche, then set it aside to make the sweet dough for cinnamon rolls. While that was rising, he started assembling ingredients for muffins.

After the sponge had fermented, he finished the brioche dough and left it to rise while he filled, rolled and cut the cinnamon rolls, putting them on baking sheets and leaving them in the cooler. 

He followed Eric’s directions, and listened as Eric explained the different techniques. When Eric asked, he talked a bit about his favorite foods from home -- apparently bagels were a big deal in Montreal? -- and learned that Jack’s taste for maple might actually be genetic. 

As they worked and talked, Eric found himself sharing some of his own stories. He speculated on how foods that were similar in origin -- ham and pork, or even beans and pea soups -- would be prepared differently. Overall, it was one of the more relaxing afternoons he’d spent at the bakery.

Eric finished putting the muffin ingredients together before shaping the brioche, sliding the trays onto the rack next to the cinnamon rolls.

“That's pretty amazing,” Bob said, looking at what they had produced.

“Thanks for the help,” Eric said. “The extra hands made it go a lot faster. I’ll text Jack and find out where they are. I’m not sure what you’re plan is; I can walk back from here if you and Jack and Alicia were planning to get dinner.”

“I’m sure you’re welcome to join us,” Bob said. “Although it’s not dinner time yet. Actually, I wondered if I could talk to you about Jack for a moment.”

Eric could feel his guard going up, like a bullet-proof glass shield. It must have been visible too, because Bob actually took a step back and held his hands palms out, in an “I’m not a threat” posture.

“What about Jack?” Eric said warily. Was this where he was warned off, told to let this relationship go for the good of Jack’s career? Or worse, told that he wouldn’t be good for Jack’s mental or emotional health? Because, frankly, he was pretty sure he disagreed with at least the second possibility. He wasn’t so sure about the first.

“About you and Jack,” Bob said. “Look, I don’t think you’ve been dating long, have you? Jack mentioned you at Christmas, but not that you were together.”

“That’s right,” Eric confirmed.

“But I can tell Jack is pretty serious about you,” Bob continued. “That’s partly because that’s just the way he is: it’s either zero or 110 percent for Jack. Part of it’s from seeing him with you.”

“OK,” Eric said, still wary. He thought Bob was right -- of course, he knew his son -- but he didn’t know where he was going with this.

“And I don’t know you as well, but I think you’re pretty serious about Jack too,” Bob said.

Eric nodded.

“I am,” he said. “But I think maybe this is a conversation I should be having with him, because we haven’t really talked about it.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Bob said. “I’m not trying to be nosy. But you don’t have a lot of experience being in the public eye, and if you two keep spending so much time together, you’re going to be noticed. If and when your relationship becomes public, or if you’re trying to decide whether to make it public, I want you know that Alicia and I will do whatever we can. She had her own career and her own fans when we met, so maybe it was a bit different, but I remember how challenging it could be. I just don’t want you to think you can’t pick up the phone and call us if you need to.”

Eric nodded again.

“Um, thanks,” he said. “Jack said he didn’t want to make any kind of a big deal out of coming out or anything, and we have been pretty discreet in public. But I know you’re right -- if enough people know, and we’re just together a lot, people will talk about it. But I don’t know what it will be like. I mean, really, thanks. But I really don’t know what we’ll need yet.”

*************************

Jack took a bite of the brioche and smiled. It might not have been Eric’s signature pie, or something gooey and sticky like the cinnamon rolls he saw Derek and Eric unload, but the rich, eggy bread, slightly sweet, was delicious. It was even still just a bit warm.

“You like it?” Eric said.

Jack swallowed before saying, “It’s wonderful. Did you have to get up extra early to get all this done?”

“Normal time,” Eric said. “Dex came into help bake, and Derek picked up the van and got everything over here.”

“I thought Chow was on mornings?”

“He runs the front for the morning crowd,” Eric said. “He’s great at that. He’s always cheerful, and everyone likes him. But Dex is better at the baking. Besides, I don’t like to make Chowder get to work early on what should be his day off. He deserves to sleep in every so often.”

“So do you, but you got up early,” Jack pointed out.

“That’s why I get paid the big bucks, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric said with a smirk.

Jack grinned, knowing how proud Eric was of his raise, and shuffled half a step closer. 

“Did you sleep OK last night?” he asked, bending so he was murmuring almost directly into Eric’s ear.

“Mmmmm, fine,” Eric said, careful not to turn to look at Jack.

“Really?” Jack said. “Because I was kind of lonely.”

“Hush, you,” Eric said. “You and your parents should have some time alone together without me hanging around, and I had to get to sleep early.”

“Do you have to go back to the bakery after this?” Jack asked.

“No, I left Dex to clean up,” Eric said. “And I got everything else ready for the week last night.”

“My parents are heading up to Boston for the day,” Jack said. 

“Oh, are you going with them?” Eric asked.

“Now you hush,” Jack said, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. “I just meant that we could have the rest of the day together once this is over.”

Eric still hadn’t actually turned to look at him, but Jack could see the blush high on his cheeks.

“Then maybe you should go and mingle now,” Eric said. “I think this is supposed to go another 45 minutes or so. If I keep up on the tables, it won’t take long to pack up and I can send everything back with Derek. Although I did promise your parents a pie.”

Jack did his best to appear interested in the conversations he got pulled into. The donors wanted to talk about the Falconers’ chances this year, to ask if he thought he’d surpassed his father yet (usually with a wink towards his dad across the room and a nudge in his ribs), to compliment his recent play. Which yeah, he had been playing pretty well, but not much above the usual standard and they’d lost the game.

Finally, after George had presented his father with an award for involvement with Falconers’ charities and someone actually from Providence with an award for their work with youth hockey, the room started to clear out. 9:15 a.m., early enough for most of these people to go to work. 

Jack scanned the room, sketching a wave to Tater and Marty chatting near the door before catching sight of Eric talking to his dad.

Eric must have been commenting on the award, because by the time Jack walked up, his father was saying, “Of course it was pleasant, but it was also a way to get more people here. Or maybe they just wanted to give me an opportunity to see Jack here.”

Jack saw him wink as he approached and rested a hand low on Eric’s back.

“Of course, it ended up being an opportunity to eat more of your food too,” Bob continued.

“Not just mine,” Eric said. “You helped.”

“Almost done?” Jack asked.

“I think I should stay ‘til everything is packed up,” Eric said. “Then I can send Derek back with the equipment and have him drop the van.”

“OK,” Jack said. “I’ll wait.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t have to,” Eric said. “It looks like the other players are leaving, so you’re probably released. If you don’t want to wait around, I can order a ride.”

“Or I can take him,” his father chimed in. “I can drop him at home on my way to pick up your mother.”

Jack suddenly felt a small twinge of jealousy. Which made no sense. “No, it’s fine,” he said. “I’ll wait. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Um, stand over here and talk to people?” Eric said. 

“Fine,” Jack said, wrapping his arm around Eric’s waist and giving a quick squeeze before letting him go.

Eric rolled his eyes but smiled as he walked away, stopping to talk to George for a moment on the way. A few minutes later, most of the leftover muffins and rolls were packed neatly into a box. Platters, trays, napkins and other items were in another box. One disposable tray held an assortment of baked goods that Eric carried to George.

“These are for your office,” he said. “We’ll drop the rest at the St. Teresa food pantry, like you asked. Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Thanks, Eric,” George said. “As soon as you send an invoice, we’ll cut you a check. For what it’s worth, everyone seemed to really like everything, so I’m sure we’ll be using you again.”

“That’s great,” Eric said. “Please do.”

Jack glanced around and realized that the guests were all gone. His father was taking his leave of Georgia, and Derek was walking out with the boxes, so Jack took Eric’s hand as they headed out.

He dropped it as they stepped into the parking lot, and took it again as soon as they were settled in the car.

“So if we want to skate at 5 today, what time do we have to start the pie?” he asked.

“It’ll only take about 45 minutes,” Eric said. “I could do it tonight, too.”

“Let’s do it this afternoon,” Jack said. “I have a feeling my parents will want to get dinner when they get back from Boston tonight. But for now, let’s go home?”

“Sure thing,” Eric said. “Let’s go home.”

**************************************

Eric leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee. If he had to identify how he felt right now, would be -- content? No, more than content. Satisfied? Well, in some ways, but there was so much more he wanted to accomplish.

But at the moment, Sugar ‘n’ Spice was clean and ready for more customers. It had gotten through the morning rush with a minimum of glitches, and the cases were filled and ready for the late-morning and lunchtime crowd.

He’d taken orders for more pies, cakes and muffins that morning than he ever had on a Tuesday, and he had plans to tuck a flier about catering services in the boxes.

He’d spent the day before with his boyfriend, who was kind and generous and dorky and sweet and funny and made Eric’s mouth water a little when he thought about what he looked like. And what he sounded like and tasted like.

He’d even baked a pie with said boyfriend, for his boyfriend’s parents, who also were amazing and even seemed to like Eric. 

He wasn’t sure he could have imagined being in this situation when he was a gay teenager living in Closet, Georgia, finding solace in a baking vlog and a co-ed hockey team.

Now that he had a minute, he pulled out his phone to check social media and tweet the bakery’s lunch special of the day.

That was when he saw the notification.

It was a picture of the scoreboard from the Penguins game, showing Eric laughing next to Bob. Then there was another picture of Eric, this time at dinner with the Zimmermanns. The framing showed Eric and Bob next to each other, although he could see part of Jack’s shoulder and arm. Alicia wasn’t visible.

@FalcsFanRI had added, _Wonder what @bbzimmermann likes best at @sugarnspicebakery? @NHLFalconers_ with a link to the tweet of Derek’s selfie.

Eric just stared for a moment. What even did he (she? Alicia said Bob had a lot of female fans) mean? They couldn’t think there was anything remotely romantic going on with him and Bob. Whoever took the picture would have seen Alicia there. so someone was stirring up trouble. But for what?

Eric decided to laugh it off, and replied _@FalcsFanRI I’m pretty sure @bbzimmerman likes the maple-crusted apple pie. It’s on the menu today; try it!_

Then he took a screenshot of the tweets and texted them to Jack, who wouldn’t have seen them because he still didn’t have a Twitter account, and to Bob, just in case he didn’t check Twitter very often. _Not sure if you saw this. Weird, huh?_

Jack texted back in a few minutes, _Haha. Morning skate over. OK if I stop by? Tater wants to come too._

 _Sure thing, honey,_ Eric said _._

It was a little longer before Bob texted back _Lol. weird, but seems harmless. Might want to let Falcs PR know._

By that time Eric was shuttling trays back and forth from the kitchen as the bakery filled up with people looking for lunch. Eric wondered if he had time to make another batch of quiches because it looked like they might run out. He did still have some pie dough for the crusts in the cooler; he’d just have to roll them and fill and bake them. Dex was due in soon; maybe once he arrived he could help Chowder in front and Eric could slip back into the kitchen.

When Eric swung the door back open to bring more banana-oatmeal muffins out, he saw the line had grown again. This was shaping up to be one of the busiest Tuesdays they’d ever had.

Eric started filling orders as Chowder relayed them, offering everyone a quick word and a smile, sharing longer greetings with regulars.

“Yes, it sure is busy today,” he said. “Maybe it’s the nice weather!”

“Thanks for waiting!”

“I like them all, but the cranberry-walnut ones are always good.”

Finally Dex wandered in, saw the number of people waiting, and hurried into the back to grab his apron and wash his hands.

When he came back out, Eric said, “You got this? We’re gonna need more quiches and mini-pies at least. I think we have enough muffins that we’ll have a variety, even if we run out of some kinds. The filled croissants are getting low, but they take too long to make more now.” 

“Sure thing, Bitty,” Dex said. “Chow and I can handle it.”

Eric rolled out the crusts for the quiches, filled them with eggs and veggies and set them to bake before rolling out crusts for mini-pies.

He was checking on his stock for fillings in the refrigerator when he heard the kitchen door open behind him.

“Dex, honey, didn’t we have some cherry filling already made?” he asked.

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Jack’s voice answered.

“Jack!” Eric turned and and gave Jack a quick hug before turning back to the refrigerator. Jack stepped behind him, wrapped his arms around Eric’s waist and kissed his hair.

“I just wanted to see you for a minute,” he said. “Chow said you were back here.”

“I’m glad to see you, too, but we’re crazy busy and I have to get this batch of mini-pies in the oven,” Eric said.

“I understand,” Jack said, giving him another brief kiss before for stepping back. “We’re leaving tonight for Charlotte right after the game, but I’ll be home by Saturday morning. Keep in touch?”

“Of course,” Eric said. “Are you leaving right now? If you wait a few minutes, I can make your sandwich for later.”

“We probably have a little bit,” Jack said. “I left Tater in line.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Eric said. “Make sure he knows he doesn’t have to sign anything or anything like that, please? My regulars are pretty good about respecting people’s privacy, but I don’t know everyone out there. Chris and Dex should take care of it, but ...”

“Eric, it’s Tater,” Jack said. “He doesn’t mind. But tell you what: I’ll make sure he tells people that he’ll sign until he gets his order, then we have to go, OK?”

“OK,” Eric said. “Want to stay here and wait for a minute?”

Eric had been filling mini-pies while they talked, then putting the top crusts on. He slid the pies into the oven, checked the quiches, then cut two slices of whole-grain bread for Jack’s sandwich. He took a scoop from the jar of all-natural peanut butter he kept just for Jack, added some of the pluot jam he’d bought on a whim, and wrapped the sandwich in paper before putting in a bag.

“There you go,” he said, handing it over and kissing Jack’s cheek. “Good luck tonight. I’ll be watching on TV, but call me after anyway.”

“You sure?” Jack said. “You need your sleep.”

“I’m sure,” Eric said. “I’ll sleep better if I talk to you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric and Bob (yes, Bob) draw some unwanted attention on Twitter; Eric and Jack try to figure out how to handle it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to write a chapter in which Eric and Jack are never in the same room. I promise it won't happen again. But they're still really sweet to each other, and Bob continues to dispense fatherly advice. Maybe one, maybe two chapters after this one.

Eric pitched in to help Dex fill orders and took turns with Dex making the rounds to wipe the handful of tables and shuttle used dishes to the back.

Finally, at about 1 p.m., the line began to dwindle and and the tables started to empty. Eric looked at the pastry cases with a critical eye.

There were only two quiches left, and half a dozen mini-pies. The muffins looked like they would hold out for the rest of the day, but they were sold out of maple-crusted apple pie. Eric would have to add to what he planned to bake in the morning, and who knew if tomorrow was going to be just as busy? Still, it was a good problem to have..

“I’m not sure what happened today,” Eric said. “Do you think it was all that selfie Derek took with Bob Zimmermann?”

“I don’t know, Bits,” Chowder said, untying is apron. “Who would have thought a picture with our logo in the background would make that much difference? Do you need me to stay and help?”

“No, that’s OK, Chris,” Eric said. “You’ve already stayed late. We’ll take care of it.”

He patted his pocket for his phone -- Bob had said something about getting in touch with the Falconers about that strange tweet -- when he heard it ringing in the kitchen. He must have put it down during the rush. He hustled in to grab it before his voicemail picked up.

“Hello? Matthew? What’s up?”

“Eric -- what’s happening down there? You’re all over Twitter, and you didn’t answer my texts. I didn’t want to call during the rush in case you were busy.”

“Oh, Lord, was there a rush,” Eric said. “It was already busy, then Jack Zimmermann and Alexei Mashkov stopped in, and I guess someone must have posted that, because then it just got crazy.”

“Was Bad Bob there too?” Matthew asked, “Because I think that’s him showing up on Twitter. Was he there over the weekend? Whatever, good job. Keep it up.”

“Uh, thanks, Matthew. I’m gonna have to take a look at what’s going on. I hope it’s nothing, well, nothing that makes anyone look bad?”

“Well, it certainly makes the bakery look good,” Matthew said.

Eric ended the call, then headed back to the register.

“Dex, sweetheart, can you get the dishwasher going?” Eric asked. “I need to take a look at something.”

Then he opened the Twitter app on his phone, closed his eyes, took a breath, opened his eyes and looked at his notifications.

Bless his regulars, several had weighed in on the tweet from @FalcsFanRI, some in praise of the maple-crusted apple pie Eric had suggested, others suggesting their own favorites.

Then @FalcsFanRI had tweeted again, this time with a picture of Eric locking up Sunday afternoon, Bob standing next to him. This one included Eric’s own Twitter handle.

_Looks like @bbzimmermann got a private look from @sugarnspice baker @omgcheckplease._

Eric couldn’t help walking to the door and looking out. Where was that picture taken from? And who would care anyway?

Then there were a whole series of tweets about Jack and Tater being there -- several including selfies with Tater -- and at least one picture of Jack coming out of the kitchen carrying his sandwich bag.

@FalcsFanRI had retweeted that with the note, _Wonder what Jack Z wanted to talk with @omgcheckplease about?_

Eric took screenshots of the new tweets from @FalcsFanRI and texted Jamie.

_I don’t know if you’ve seen these, or if you know who this is, but I’m not sure what’s going on. Bob Zimmermann suggested I let you, or someone in PR, know about them._

His phone rang a moment later.

“These just started today?” Jamie was asking as soon as he answered.

“Yes, Jamie, and how are you today?”

“I’m fine, Eric, and I’m sorry,” Jamie said. “We’re not sure who this is -- it looks like they just made their account last week and started following us -- or what they want to accomplish. None of the pictures are from any real private areas, and they don’t show anything except that you know the Zimmermanns. Bob already said he liked your food, so I don’t really get the point. But the tone does feel nasty. Does Jack know?”

“About the first one,” Eric said. “Not about the rest. But don’t tell him before the game tonight. He’s still not on Twitter -- after this, I’m not sure he’s going to want to be.” 

**************************

Jack carried his sandwich to the player lounge, poured a cup of water and settled at a table.

He pulled his phone out to text Eric, who was probably up from his own nap now, either headed out for a run or over to Meehan.

_Thanks for the sandwich. They always taste better when you make them._

Eric sent back a blushing emoji, then _This isn’t just a ploy to get me to make all of them, is it?_ then a winky face.

_I don’t know. Is it working?_ Jack typed back.

_Good luck tonight!_ Eric texted. _I’ll be watching. Call me later if you get a chance._

Jack finished his sandwich with a smile, tucked the note that had been attached into his pocket and cleared the wrapper and cup from the table. 

He was still smiling when he pushed the door to the dressing room open. Marty and Guy, who had been looking at something on Marty’s phone, looked up.

“Hey, Jack,” Guy said. “Ready for tonight?”

“Absolutely,” Jack said. 

Marty locked his phone and put it on the shelf of his stall.

“Look at you smile,” he said. “I’m guessing Eric made your sandwich? I saw you and Tater were there today.”

Jack thought that might be a chirp, but Marty didn’t seem like he was trying to get a rise out of him, so he just said, “ _Ouais._ The bread from the bakery is good, and he always has the best jam. You saw? From all the selfies Tater took?”

“There were a lot,” Marty agreed.

Jack shook his head.

“He honestly seems to enjoy it,” Jack said.

“What did he get?” Marty asked. “We’re on the road until Saturday. Don’t tell me he went home and ate an entire pie.”

“I don’t think so,” Jack said. “I think he just got a couple of those little mini-pies they make. You ready?”

“Of course,” Marty said.

If Marty stuck close by Jack while the team finished dressing, well, that was nothing unusual. Jack might wear the C, but Marty had appointed himself Jack’s mentor and guardian when Jack came into the league, and he was still a close friend. They went out for warmups, came back for final strategy and took the ice for the anthem.

The game was hard-fought and fast, but mostly clean, and ended in a 4-2 win over the Sabres. Jack thought he played pretty well, saw the ice and could envision the play developing. Even so, he couldn’t help but think that there was something going on just beyond the edges of his awareness.

Jack showered and dressed and grabbed his bag, planning to call Eric before he boarded the team bus for the airport. He’d just left the dressing room when Poots appeared at his shoulder.

“Is Eric OK?” he asked.

Jack stopped walking.

“He was when I saw him after morning skate,” he said slowly. “Why?”

“There’s just this stuff on Twitter,” Poots said. “With him and your dad? I guess they hit it off. Anyway, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Show me,” Jack said. 

Poots opened his phone and pulled up the tweets involving Eric and Bob. He saw the first one, the one Eric had sent him, and Eric’s thoroughly professional response. Then the picture of Eric and Bob leaving the bakery, which somehow, he thought, made it look like they’d been doing something clandestine instead of prep work for a whole lot of baked goods. 

That had been retweeted along with lots of snide remarks about Bob and getting his sugar fix and kneading buns. Jack felt his stomach twist a little. Not because he thought there was anything … untoward between Eric and his dad, not for a second. It was just so unfair that both of them, honestly two of the best men he knew, should be the subject of such speculation.

“Thanks,” he said, thrusting the phone back into Poots’ hands and stalking off to find a quiet corner.

As soon as he thought he was out of earshot of anyone, he touched Eric’s contact button and waited for him to pick up.

“Hi, honey! Great game!” Eric said in a slightly too bright tone.

“Eric, what’s going on?” Jack asked.

***************

Eric took a deep breath.

“I'm not sure, exactly,” Eric said. “With the posts I mean. It's like someone is determined to make something out of nothing, and I can't for the life of me figure out why.”

“But my dad?” Jack sounded kind of strangled.

“Oh, honey, you know that there’s nothing going on between me and your dad, besides him being nice and trying to get to know his son’s boyfriend, right?” Eric couldn’t believe he had to even say the words. The whole thing was ludicrous. How could Jack think such a thing about either one of them?

“No, no, no,” Jack was saying, like his mind had just caught up with Eric’s words. “Not that. _Mon dieu,_ not that. But we’ve spent time together in public. We’ve gone for runs, we’ve gone to restaurants, we’ve gone grocery shopping. Why pick up on you being seen with my dad? If it had to be someone, why not, I don’t know, Tater? He’s at the bakery almost as much as me, and he’s not married.”

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “What does your dad think? I guess if anyone has a right to be angry, it would be him and your mom.”

“You too,” Jack said. “Some of the things they were implying about you --”

“What, that I’m some kind of sugar baby?” Eric snorted. “I think most of them were just playing on me being a baker. I mean, your dad’s kind of old for me, I know, but if he wasn’t married and I wasn’t dating the attractive Zimmermann, I’d at least meet him for a cup of coffee.”

Jack groaned.

“OK, OK, I’m kidding,” Eric said. “And we both know your dad would never have looked at me twice if I wasn’t dating you.”

“Well, maybe to get a recipe,” Jack acknowledged, the beginnings of a grin quirking his lips.

“How long before you have to leave?” Eric asked.

“They’re starting to get on the bus now,” Jack said.

“Then let me call your dad and find out what he thinks,” Eric said. “Call me when you land and I’ll tell you if we’ve come up with anything.”

“Eric, that’ll be after midnight,” Jack said. “You have to sleep. Go ahead and call my dad if you want, but tell him I’ll call him when we get in to Charlotte. Then I’ll call you when I get up, OK? But please get some rest. You’re already up late.”

“Aww, you worry about me,” Eric said. 

“I just know proper rest is important,” Jack said. “Talk to you in the morning?”

Eric ended the call and scrolled through his contacts to find Bob’s number.

Bob answered on the first ring.

“Eric! You’re still up,” he said. “I didn’t want to call during the game, and then I was afraid I’d wake you.”

“No, sir,” Eric said. “I just got off the phone with Jack. He, uh, might be calling you after they land in Charlotte? He didn’t want to call me then because he said I should be sleeping.”

Bob sighed.

“That’s Jack,” he said. “And he’s right, of course.”

“Of course,” Eric said. “Have you been following all this?”

“Well, I stopped looking at my mentions a while ago, but in general, yes,” Bob said.

“So what do we do?” Eric said.

“For now, ignore it,” Bob said. “I don’t know why anyone would find it interesting that we know each other; it seems to be pretty common knowledge that the Falconers like your bakery. There’s nothing we can really do, anyway -- the photos are pretty public and no one’s making any threats and any reaction looks like overreaction to the innuendo. How’s Jack taking it?”

“Not as badly as I thought he might,” Eric said. “But he’s upset about the disrespect to you and Alicia.”

“And you, too, I’d think,” Bob said. “We’re fine, really. Compared to when Alicia and I first got together? This is nothing. But I suppose Jack doesn’t really know about that. It had mostly blown over by the time he came along, and we didn’t talk about it much afterward. When he had his problems --”

“He told me about his overdose.”

“Yes, well, that was a different kind of thing. I mean, it was nothing we could laugh at, and in a way, this is, because we all know the truth. What does PR say?”

“Pretty much the same thing: ‘Don’t feed the trolls,’” Eric said. “Jamie did say she’d find out what she could about the account that started it all.”

“Then relax, Eric,” Bob said. “Jack’s right. Go to bed. Go to sleep. See what tomorrow brings.” 

***************************************

“ _Salut, Jack.”_

“Were you waiting up for me to call?” Jack said. “We just got into the hotel.”

“Well, yes,” Bob said. “I was going to give you another half-hour before I turned in. Eric seemed to think you were worried that this would be a problem for me and your mother.”

“It’s just not fair,” Jack said. “Eric’s _my_ boyfriend --”

“I think we -- by which I mean, everyone who knows both you and Eric -- is pretty clear on that,” Bob said mildly.

“No, not like that, it’s just unfair that you and Maman get dragged into it,” Jack said. “That people would imply that you’re having an affair with a 23-year-old kid --”

“Don’t let Eric hear you say that,” Bob said.

“I’m 28. Not 60,” Jack said. 

“I feel like I should be wounded,” Bob said. “But you’re right, of course. I would feel like a creep if I was looking to date someone that much younger. As it happens, though, it’s not the first time people bent on malicious gossip have cast aspersions on my relationship with your mother. A lot of people -- mostly her fans, to be honest -- couldn’t believe that she’d date a lowly hockey player and thought it was all a stunt. But there were a few people who couldn’t believe I was interested in her, either.”

“How’d you get through it?”

“Ignored it, mostly,” Bob said. “There were a couple of really persistent people that we had to get lawyers involved for, but for most people, once it became clear that we were really together, they gave up or moved on. I know that even when you were growing up, we -- all of us -- got more attention than maybe was healthy, but I guess it didn’t seem so bad to me because it was better than what happened when we were dating.”

“So I don’t do -- what do you call it, Twitter -- but Eric seems to think this is strange, but mostly harmless,” Jack said.

“What I’ve seen would fall into that category,” Bob said. “Eric and I could probably go after some of the people who were tweeting for defamation, but that would just blow it up, and the tweets that started it all skirt the line. The question is where it goes from here. If Deadspin or TMZ get hold of it, well, it could get nasty. But I’m not sure they care about a retired hockey player and a baker from Providence, no matter how cute he is.”

Jack snorted. “Retired hockey player, right.”

He paused for a moment.

“Is this what it’s going to be like when people find out about me and Eric?” he said.

“No,” Bob said. “As much as I’d like to make you feel better, it will be worse. Because everyone -- from TMZ and Deadspin to more reputable outlets like ESPN and Outsports -- are going to have something to say about the first out player in the NHL, and they’re all going to want a piece of the story, and for a good while, it’s going to feel like they want a piece of you.”

“And a piece of Eric.”

“Yes, and a piece of Eric.”

Jack took a moment to focus on his breathing, and his father spoke again.

“For what it’s worth, he really is a remarkable young man,” Bob said. “I know you’re just getting used to each other, and maybe this isn’t something you would be thinking about yet if it wasn’t for this little tempest in a teapot, but don’t get ahead of yourself, and talk to Eric. That’s the biggest thing. You aren’t going through this alone, so don’t act like you are.”

“But Eric wouldn’t be involved in this at all if it wasn’t for me,” Jack said.

“And you wouldn’t be involved in it if it wasn’t for him, _mon fils,_ ” Bob replied.

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” Jack said.

“No, of course you aren’t,” Bob said. “And you don’t have to convince anyone of that. Now, it’s very late, and even though I don’t have a game tomorrow, I need to sleep. I imagine you need to sleep even more. Will you be able to rest?”

“I think so,” Jack said. “ _Je t’aime, Papa.”_

_“Je t’aime aussi,”_ Bob said. “Tell Eric I said hello when you talk to him in the morning.”

*****************************

Eric made it through the morning rush with the help of three strong cups of coffee and determination that he wasn’t going to let a Twitter troll affect his job.

He’d found it hard to sleep, and woke to check his Twitter accounts at midnight and again at 2 a.m. There wasn’t much more than there had been the day before: a few jokes about Bad Bob Zimmermann robbing the cradle (he was an adult, thank you very much!) but nothing too threatening or mean-spirited. There were also lots of tweets from customers of Sugar ‘n’ Spice defending both his character and his baked goods.

_@bbzimmermann has probably just fallen in love with the mini pies,_ one said. _I did!_

Another said, _Why wouldn’t @bbzimmermann go to the best bakery in Providence when he’s in town? And @omgcheckplease would be fun to watch a game with!_

Those made Eric smile. The ones that were a little more, well, personal ( _I’d make a play for @omgcheckplease if he swung my way! He looks delicious!)_ made him squirm a bit, but it was hard to think of a way to respond that wouldn’t seem encouraging, or overreacting, or something. So he ignored them.

On the upside, Sugar ‘n’ Spice had gained over a hundred new followers; @omgcheckplease had a few dozen more. So there was that.

The morning rush was busier than usual, but nothing like lunch had been the day before. Jack texted when he got up that he’d call after morning skate, when he had more time and the bakery should be quieter. Jamie called shortly after nine, and Eric called her back once he had the dishes washing and he could sit in the back and talk.

“We still don’t know who FalcsFanRI is,” she said, “but it looks like their IP address is in Boston.”

“Boston?” 

“Yeah, go figure,” she said. “Anyway, like I said, the account’s relatively new, and they hadn’t put much of anything up until yesterday. They liked and retweeted some of our stuff, a couple of other tweets about the team, but nothing personal. They follow you too, both omgcheckplease and the bakery.”

“OK,” Eric said. “I don’t know who it could be. I’ll think about it. Any advice about responding?”

“I don’t think we should respond directly, but I was thinking about maybe posting a pic of you and both Zimmermanns from the game, something about how the Falcs enjoy it when their families can come and support them? I don’t think we’d have to identify you at this point. But would you mind if we did, if someone asks?”

“No, that’s fine,” Eric said. “After this whole thing I’d think anyone who was paying attention knows who I am. I’ll tweet like usual -- the lunch special, stuff like that. Nothing about hockey.”

“OK. I’ll run that by George, but expect us to do that,” Jamie said. “I’ll check in with you again tomorrow about this time, if nothing blows up today. And you can call me anytime if you need to. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, thanks for all your help, Jamie,” Eric said. “I guess I don’t understand why anyone cares.”

Eric had finished restocking the cases for lunchtime -- and noting that the bakery hadn’t been empty at all during the morning -- when his phone rang again.

“I’m going to take this in the back, Chowder,” Eric said before answering. 

He waited until he was through the kitchen door before connecting the call.

“Jack! You doing OK?”

“ _Ouais,_ I’m fine, Eric,” Jack said. “The question is, how are you? No more weird tweets?”

“Not yet,” Eric said. “Nothing new, at least. Jamie said she’s going to post a picture of me with both your parents from the game, as long as it’s OK with your dad. But it’s been quiet so far. I was just about to tweet something about our specials before lunchtime.”

“And you’re really OK?” Jack said. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, really, Jack, I’m fine,” Eric said. “I mean, I told my vlog subscribers I was gay before I told anyone else, so maybe I’m used to communicating with people I don’t know in real life.”

“You seemed upset yesterday,” Jack said.

Good Lord, Eric thought. Why was he being so persistent?

“I was, a bit,” he allowed. “It was just strange, having people say things -- or at least speculate about things -- about that weren’t true. When I came out on my vlog, I only had a couple of hundred subscribers, and I’m sure most of them already assumed I was gay before I said anything, and no one else who might have seen it really cared at all whether I was gay or not. What was different, I guess, was having strangers act like they had an interest, and to have them doing it at your dad’s expense, well, that rubbed me the wrong way. But your dad seemed pretty calm about it last night.”

“Yeah, when I talked to him he said he’d been through worse,” Jack said. “But he also said that if people find out about us, it’s going to be worse.”

“But it’ll at least be true,” Eric said. 

Jack snorted. “Depends on what they say.”

“Jack, honey, I can’t pretend that I’m looking forward to all the talk,” Eric said. “And I know if we keep spending so much time together, there will be talk. But let’s not borrow trouble before we have to.”

“Maybe it’s good that I’m on the road now, eh?” Jack said. “Give things time to calm down?”

“Hush,” Eric said. “I’d always rather be able to see you.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric has an epiphany and a moment of doubt. Jack has a moment of clarity. And they skate off hand-in-hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of this installment. Let me know what you think? More notes -- and a question -- at the end.

Jack pulled at his tie and let his bag slip to the floor while he waited for the elevator. He checked his watch: 3:20 a.m. And it felt like every joint in his body ached. Three games in five days in three cities as the season turned toward the homestretch.  
He thought about the door sliding open and Eric stepping out, like he had the first time they’d seen one another, but it was too early for that. Eric wouldn’t be leaving for the bakery for another what, hour and a half?  
But the lateness of the hour made it clear why Eric had gently said he’d be asleep in his own bed, in his own apartment, when Jack came home. Eric would have to get up in less than an hour, and he didn’t need Jack waking him now. And as much as Jack wished he could slip in between already-warm sheets and press up against Eric, letting his slow, rhythmic breaths lull him to sleep, he wouldn’t want to be awakened by Eric’s alarm minutes after he dropped off.  
He’d see Eric later, he knew that. But the idea of waiting until almost midday, when he would be likely to wake up, hurt. It twisted something in his gut to know that Eric was upstairs, just steps from his apartment, and Jack was going to go up and not see him, then go to sleep and when he woke up, Eric wouldn’t be there anymore.  
Crisse,Jack thought. What’s happened to me?  
He took the elevator up, used his key to let himself in, and smiled at the pie and note on the counter. Apparently, welcome-home pie was going to be a thing. He could live with that.  
The note reminded him that there was food in the refrigerator and prepared meals in the freezer, and asked if Jack wanted to go to the rink with Eric on Saturday. A question that hardly needed to be asked since they had talked about it while Jack was gone. He supposed Eric was giving him a way out if he was too tired.  
He wouldn’t be too tired, certainly not too tired to watch Eric as he danced and leapt and spun, his blades flashing silver while his hair sparked gold.  
It was 3:25 and he was tired and he hurt and he was thirsty and he hadn’t eaten since 11 p.m. Going to bed without water and nutrition wouldn’t be wise, he told himself. He didn’t need a whole meal from the freezer, just some carbs and protein to keep himself going, let his muscles start to rebuild themselves.  
Well, he could certainly scramble an egg and make toast. Especially since Eric had left some of the good bread.  
And he never wanted to sleep right after eating, so he unpacked his bag, dumping dirty clothes in the hamper, rehanging one suit, putting the other in the bag for the dry cleaner.  
4:15. Eric should be waking up now. Jack opened his door enough that he could see and hear when Eric left his apartment, and settled down with a well-thumbed copy of “Guns, Germs and Steel.”  
Sure enough, just after 4:30, Jack heard the whoosh and snick of Eric’s door opening and closing. He got up and opened his door all the way, stepping out as Eric approached the elevator.  
“Jack!” Eric said, pulling his earbuds out and pulling Jack into a hug. “Why are you awake? Was your flight late? Did you just get home?”  
“I got home about an hour ago,” Jack said, drawing Eric into the elevator by the hand when the door opened. “I really didn’t want to sleep until I saw you, and I didn’t want to wake you early, so I figured I’d just wait. Can I walk you to the bakery?”  
“Of course,” Eric said, still smiling at him. “Lord, I missed you.  
Jack dropped Eric’s hand when they left the elevator -- sure it was before 5 a.m., but there were a handful of early runners and late party-goers out -- but they walked close enough together for Eric’s shoulder to occasionally brush the top of Jack’s arm.  
Jack told Eric about the games -- a 2-1 win over Carolina and 3-0 shutout over the Panthers -- and Eric talked about the bakery.  
Neither of them brought up the Twitter mess from earlier in the week.  
When Eric unlocked the door and let himself in, Jack followed. He walked through the front into the back, making sure they were really alone, then pulled Eric close and kissed him.  
“If I wake up before you leave, I’ll walk you home, too,” Jack said.  
“You need to sleep,” Eric said. “Don’t worry about me. I’m gonna need a nap this afternoon anyway.”  
“Then come and take it with me,” Jack said. “Then we can get up and go to the rink.”  
“If that’s what you want,” Eric said. “I’ll remember to bring something for Rich. You want anything special for supper?”  
“Whatever you want is good,” Jack said. “As long as you’re there.”

**************************

Sugar ‘n’ Spice was busy all day, busier than usual for a Saturday, but that had been par for the course this week. Eric had hardly stopped moving all day when it finally quieted down at around 1 p.m.  
There were still a few customers at the tables, but the line was gone and Dex assured Eric that he could handle it for now and would let Eric know if he needed help.  
“Thanks, Dex,” Eric said. “I’ve got to make the menu for next week and get some orders in if I don’t want to end up coming in both days this weekend.”  
“Falcs are home tomorrow, aren’t they?” Dex said, with a little bit of a smirk.  
“Don’t you chirp me,” Eric said. “But yes.”  
His phone buzzed almost as soon as he sat down. Matthew.  
“Garrrh. Is he watching me?” Eric said under his breath. It was an unfair thought; if Matthew was going to call, he usually did it around now, after lunch but well before Eric left for the day.  
“Hi, Eric,” Matthew said. “I just wanted to check on how things were going. I’ve been watching the receipts -- it seems like you’ve been busier than usual this week. Everything going all right?”  
“Fine,” Eric said. “Just kind of run off my feet. I’m thinking we need to bring Derek Nurse a few more hours.”  
“Maybe,” Matthew said. “Can you tell him it’s temporary, until we see if the increase in business lasts?”  
“Sure,” Eric said. “I can do that. And if he can take over some of the front-of-house work, I can bake more and deal with the paperwork and everything.”  
“Any more of that social media stuff going on?” Matthew asked. “That’s when you started to get busy.”  
“Nothing new, really,” Eric said. “We’ve gotten more followers, though, and I’ve noticed a few new regulars, so that’s good. But I wish it didn’t come with people making ridiculous claims about me or a friend of mine.”  
“So Bob Zimmermann’s a friend?” Matthew asked.  
“Well, yes,” Eric said. “You saw the pictures. I was sitting with him at a hockey game and at dinner, and he wanted to see the kitchen here, so he helped with the prep for Falcs breakfast last weekend.”  
Matthew let out what looked like a low whistle.  
“Sounds like the claims people making weren’t that big of a leap,” Matthew said. “Defensive much?”  
“Oh, come on,” Eric said. “Don’t tell me you believed it?”  
“Not really, no,” Matthew said. “I mean, come on, his wife is still hot. How did the two of you get so close?”  
“Remember I told you one of the Falconers lives in my building?” Eric said. “It’s Jack Zimmermann. We got to talking, and then he started coming in to the bakery, and brought some stuff to the team. That’s how I got in with them. Then Bob and Alicia were visiting last weekend, and I ended up going to the game too, and we hit it off.”  
Eric stopped abruptly, realizing he was rambling. Everything he said was true, as far as it went, and he didn’t want to say more.  
“It’s amazing how fast that took off on Twitter,” Matthew said. “I didn’t realize until you came down to talk at the Boston site how powerful that can be for marketing.”  
“Well, usually the daily specials don’t get so much attention,” Eric said. “People love gossip. But one reason the Falconers like to come here is that we don’t treat them like celebrities, and our regulars are good about that too.If people spread rumors about them and it’s connected to the bakery, they won’t come around.”  
“They’re back in town, aren’t they?” Matthew said.  
“Uh, yes,” Eric said. “When did you become a hockey fan?”  
“I just started following them a couple of weeks ago,” Matthew said. “When I found out my bakery was one of the Falconers’ favorite spots.”  
Something clicked in Eric’s mind.  
“Huh,” he said. “That’s when the person who started the whole Twitter thing made their account. And they followed the bakery and the Falconers right away. It took them a little longer to find my personal Twitter.”  
Matthew was silent.  
“All I know is that if it doesn’t stop, the Falconers won’t be using us anymore,” Eric said. “They can’t figure out why anyone would go after Bob Zimmermann, though.”  
“Maybe they just thought it would be a good joke, and no one would believe it.” Matthew said. “Maybe they didn’t want to start something with one of the current players because maybe it would cause too much trouble.”  
“Maybe,” Eric said. “Maybe if someone spreads any more rumors about me online I’ll have to quit. For the good of the bakery.”  
**************************

After leaving Eric at Sugar ‘n’ Spice, Jack took himself home, stripped down to his boxer briefs and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. He slept straight through until noon, then got up and put one of Eric’s prepared meals in the oven to heat.  
He showered and dressed in track pants and a gray Falconers T-shirt, checked his lunch and picked up his phone. He thought about calling Eric to check in, but decided against it. He didn’t want to smother.  
Instead, he turned the TV on and queued up a Netflix documentary to watch while he ate.  
He was just getting into it when he heard his phone vibrate on the kitchen counter.  
He thought about not getting up to get it; he didn’t want to be one of those people who was constantly attached to his phone, and he was comfortable with his plate on his lap. Before Eric, he would have ignored it. Before there was anyone he wanted to talk to on the phone.  
But now there was Eric, and maybe he had something he wanted to tell Jack, so Jack put his plate on the coffee table and pushed himself off the couch, with the thought that by the time he got there, whoever was calling would have left a message anyway.  
The phone vibrated again, and he realized the joke was on him: it wasn’t a call, but a text. Well, he was up now. Might as well get it.  
The text was from Eric, which made Jack think that moving at least was worth it.  
Then he read it.  
I don’t know if you’re up yet, but if you are, don’t come to the bakery to walk me home. I’ll explain when I get there.  
Jack sat down again. Had he done something? Was there something wrong? Something Eric didn’t want him to see?  
He typed, Everything OK? Did something happen?  
It took a couple of minutes for Eric to respond, and Jack couldn’t help wondering if Eric was trying to find a way to let him down easy. It couldn’t be that, could it? Eric had seemed really pleased when Jack had met him in the corridor this morning.  
Not really, Eric texted back. I think I just figured something out. I’ll tell you before our nap.  
That was good, Jack thought. If Eric was planning to come over for a nap, then everything would be fine. Even if Jack thought he was more likely to spend the time watching Eric sleep than sleeping himself.  
His phone buzzed again.  
And btw, I work for a weasel. I think.  
OK, Jack texted back. As long as you’re all right. I’ll be here when you get home.  
Then he pulled his plate back into his lap (what? He was was hungry) and turned on the documentary and tried not to think about it until Eric got there.  
When the movie ended, he carried his plate to the kitchen and checked the clock. 2:15. Eric should be home in about 40 minutes. Maybe he could read? What did he do with his time before he spent it waiting for Eric?  
He washed his lunch dishes and put them away and then did what he had done this morning: opened the door a crack and sat with his book where he could see who passed in the corridor. Eric said he was coming over to nap, but he might want to go to his apartment first. Jack didn’t want to wait a minute more than he had to.  
It turned out he didn’t have to.  
He heard the elevator doors slide open, then Eric was pushing his door open wider.  
“Mr. Zimmermann, you should be more careful,” Eric said. “Anyone could come in here.”  
Jack stood up and said, “Not just anyone. There’s a doorman.”  
“Yeah, well, come here, because it’s just me,” Eric said, wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist when he got close. “And I’m not about trusting other people right now.”  
Jack pulled Eric even closer and spoke into his hair.  
“Mmm. Tell me what happened.”  
“I’m pretty sure that Matthew was the one who sent those tweets,” Eric said. “Or had someone send them. I need to call your dad to apologize.”  
“Apologize? What for?” Jack said. “It sounds like Matthew owes you an apology.”  
“Because knowing me is what brought it onto your dad,” Eric said.  
“But you didn’t do anything wrong,” Jack said. “You should demand an apology from him. And another raise.”  
“I can’t prove it,” Eric said. “But the timing of it … and when I hinted at it, he didn’t exactly deny it. But he didn’t admit it either.”  
“So what did you do?”  
“Oh, my God, I’m sorry, Jack, but I threatened to quit if rumors about me kept appearing,” Eric said, pulling away and sitting on the couch.  
“OK,” Jack said. “But why are you sorry?”  
“Because you guaranteed my deposit, and I need this job to make my rent,” Eric said.  
“Don’t worry about that,” Jack said. “Seriously, not at all. Come on, let’s get some sleep.”  
Jack extended his hand to Eric and pulled him to his feet.  
“One thing I don’t understand, though,” Jack said. “Why my dad? Why not me?”  
“Well, I don’t think Matthew was paying attention to Twitter before the weekend,” Eric said. “I’m pretty sure he got the idea from the selfie he took with Derek that I posted. And I think he was afraid of what would happen if he went after you.”  
“And my dad was the better choice? So he’s a weasel and an idiot?” Jack sniggered. “Don’t worry. This will all work out.”

**********************

Jack seemed determined not to be too concerned about Matthew, who now knew Eric lived in the same building as Jack and had shown a predisposition to stir up trouble.  
Eric thought maybe Jack should take it a little more seriously.  
Matthew’s only real concern seemed to be whether the bakery was doing better, which was unfair, because it was doing fine before. It was certainly busier than when Eric arrived there, and the business had been growing steadily. If people happened to hear that some of the Falconers were regular customers, well, that would have been fine. Even if that was on Twitter … which it was, after Mashkov had come in with Jack. What was Twitter but word-of-mouth on steroids?  
The difference was that Matthew hadn't tweeted about the quality or the popularity of Sugar ‘n’ Spice’s baked goods. He'd crossed a line by bringing Eric’s personal life into it, and even worse, Bob’s.  
And if Eric and Jack kept spending so much time together, who was to say he wouldn't bring Jack into it? Jack seemed to accept that the world would find out about them sooner or later, but Eric couldn't help but fret over what would happen then. The reaction on social media would be huge. Sure, some, maybe even most, people would be supportive. But those who weren't could be positively vitriolic. What would it be like for Eric’s parents, who would go from quietly being the parents of a gay boy to being the parents of a gay poster boy? What would it be like for Jack? Would players on other teams try to bait him with homophobic language? Would the hits get harder and dirtier? What if he got hurt?  
“Eric!”  
Eric snapped his head around to see Jack standing by the boards, his face flushed and hair sweaty from his cardio session upstairs.  
“Are you OK?” Jack asked. “You haven't been practicing like you usually do. You've just skated in circles.”  
“I was doing footwork,” Eric said.  
“Right,” Jack said. “If alternating forward and backwards laps is footwork.”  
Eric shrugged.  
“Just thinking,” he said.  
“Tell you what,” Jack said. “Let me get my skates on and we can talk about it. We've got another 15 minutes.”  
“You don't have to,” Eric protested.  
“But I want to,” Jack said. “We need to talk to each other, ouais?”  
Jack retrieved his skates and started circling the rink with Eric.  
“So what is it that has you so deep in your head you’re not even practicing spins?” Jack said.  
Eric skated a few strides, looking straight ahead.  
Finally, he said, “What if this ruins everything?”  
“What do you mean by ‘this’? Your boss being an asshole?” Jack said. “He always was an asshole. He still doesn’t pay you what you’re worth, and that little surprise visit to get you take a smaller raise than you asked for -- and to do more work at the same time -- that was a dick move.”  
“And I was so proud of myself,” Eric said, hoping he didn’t sound as pathetic as he felt.  
“You had every right to be,” Jack said. “It took courage to ask for a raise, and ask for more staffing, and to go into it alone, with no experience doing anything like that, with the person that held the keys to your life here … I think that took a lot of courage. I’ve certainly never gone into negotiations alone. I’ve always had an agent, lawyers, a whole team, and my parents to back it all up. Him being a jerk doesn’t reflect badly on you -- it just makes what you’ve accomplished all the more impressive.”  
“Anyway, I wasn’t talking about him being a jerk,” Eric said. “I mean, you and me. What if when people find out and, I don’t know, something happens to you and you lose your career?”  
He watched Jack stride thoughtfully for a few seconds before Jack said quietly, “Then I will have had a very nice, very lucrative career, and I will take some time to figure out what I want to do next. Maybe I would go to college. Who knows? But regardless of what I might have thought when I was a teenager, hockey is not my actual life. I’ve already had far longer in the league than most people.”  
“Jack, please, just take this seriously,” Eric said. “Falcs management could change and the new people might not want an out player. Other teams could use it to get under your skin. Or worse, you could be hurt.”  
“I do take it seriously,” Jack countered. “I could be hurt in any game I play in. Would it be worse if the guy who did it thought there was something wrong with me? Maybe, but the end result is the same. It’s too late, anyway.”  
“Too late for what?”  
“Too late for you to walk away and think this will go away and no one will ever know it happened,” Jack said. “How many people know about us? A couple dozen players on the team, maybe another half-dozen in PR and management, my parents, your friends and co-workers … once you start counting the people who are in on a secret in the dozens, I don’t think you can really call it a secret anymore. Especially when a lot of them gossip as much as hockey players do.”  
“Not helping,” Eric said.  
Jack held Eric’s arm and stopped, bringing Eric around to face him.  
“If you really want to stop, that’s your choice, of course,” Jack said. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure to do anything you don’t want to do. And people might not find out that we were together, if you walk away -- and believe me, you’ll have to do the walking, because I don’t want to leave -- but it will definitely get around that I’m not straight. And you know what? That’s OK with me.”  
“But you never told anyone before.”  
“No,” Jack said. “I never thought I had a reason to, because I wasn’t seeing anyone. But maybe I wasn’t seeing anyone so I wouldn’t have to say anything. And I know it would have been much riskier when I came into the league. But I never realized how much better it would feel to tell people. Why didn’t you tell your parents until you moved to Massachusetts? I know you felt safer, having a place to go home to, but was maybe learning what it felt like to be out part of it? Because I feel like I’m closer to my teammates now than I have been in all the years I’ve been here. I feel more like myself, if that makes sense.”  
Jack took a deep breath.  
“I really want to be with you, to keep finding out things like this with you, even to deal with whatever nastiness happens with you,” he said. “But I know I can’t make you go through that for me, and that’s what it would be, because you’re already out and have friends and could probably date a hundred guys.”  
“But, Jack, I do,” Eric insisted. “I do want to do all that with you. I just don’t want to be the reason you lose everything that you love.”  
“I couldn’t have lost everything I love if I still have you,” Jack said.

*******************************

Eric’s eyes widened and a he sucked in a breath.  
Crisse. Tabarnak de osti. What had he just said? Why had he said that?  
It’s not like loving Eric was a new thought for Jack; it had first entered his mind way too early in their relationship for even a hockey robot like him to think about saying it. Bringing it out in the open would do nothing but pressure Eric -- just what he wanted to stay away from. Eric, who was five years younger and who deserved a chance to look around him before settling down; Eric, who had to understand the downsides of being with a professional athlete as well as the benefits. Although judging by this conversation, Eric was aware of some of the drawbacks.  
Eric still hadn’t said anything.  
Jack dropped Eric’s hand and rubbed both his palms over his face for a moment, finally looking up to see Eric’s eyes still fixed on him.  
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make things weird or --”  
“Did you mean it?” Eric broke in. “Did you mean you love me?”  
“Well. yes, but I know it’s only --”  
“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you are not apologizing for telling me you love me,” Eric said. “If you must know, I’m pretty sure I love you too, but I didn’t want to jinx anything or scare you off by saying it.”  
“You don’t have to say it back because I said it,” Jack said.  
“I’m not,” Eric said. “I’m saying it because I mean it. I might not have much dating experience, but I know I’ve never felt like this before, and I can’t imagine that I’ll feel this way about anyone else.”  
“Then why just ‘pretty sure’?” Jack chirped with a smile, now that the terror of what he had done had subsided.  
“Well, I’ve got your dad to think of, don’t I?” Eric said, then spun away from Jack and took off down the ice. “Come and get me,” he called over his shoulder.  
Jack pushed off after him, legs churning and lungs burning, until he had caught up and caged Eric between his arms against the boards.  
“You let me catch you, didn’t you?” he asked,  
“I’ll never tell,” Eric said. “But I will say, it’s much better when you’re a half-inch away as opposed to half a rink, Mr. Zimmermann.”  
“How about I come even closer?” Jack said, bending to press his lips to Eric’s. As they kissed, Eric’s arms went around Jack’s waist and pulled their bodies together, while Jack’s hands came off the glass, one resting on the side of Eric’s jaw, the other brushing over the short hair at the back of his neck.  
Jack couldn’t have said how long they stood there on the ice, kissing like it was the only way to get oxygen. The didn’t separate until they heard the beep-beep of the zamboni’s horn as it entered the ice.  
Jack looked up and grinned, giving a lazy wave towards the room where the zamboni was stored.  
He nodded to Rich, took Eric’s hand, and skated to the exit. Rich waved back and then started his slow, careful circuit.  
“Come on, Eric,” Jack said. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This seemed like the natural break for this fic, so I'm marking it complete, but I'm still toying with the idea of doing a sweet, fluffy epilogue about what happens after. What do you think? And should I keep it T-rated, or more NSFW. Tell me in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlookfrightened).


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Eric's relationship becomes public. And they get ready to visit Eric's parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really it for this installment. Thanks for reading! And, of course, thanks to Ngozi for these marvellous characters.

It happened on a Tuesday. Well, really, it happened on a Monday, but it didn't really blow up until Tuesday.

Jack had his last day off before the playoffs started on the Monday, and since the bakery was closed, they spent the day together. They'd slept in until 8, gone for an easy run -- Jack had been told in no uncertain terms to take a break from the ice for a day -- and had brunch at the diner that had become one of their places. The diner also had started buying pies and other baked goods from Sugar ‘n’ Spice, to Eric’s immense pleasure -- not least because Eric had gotten Matthew to agree to give him a commission on off-site sales just as he did for catering jobs.

They’d taken coffee to go and wandered the riverside, pausing often for Jack to take photographs in the clear April light.

After an hour or so, when Eric was feeling a little chilled by the early spring breeze, they'd turned into Eric’s favorite market and bought the ingredients for a couple of pies for Jack to take to the team tomorrow.

Turning onto the street as they left the market, their fingers had tangled together. Looking back, Eric didn't even know who had reached for whom -- just that neither of them had let go.

When they got to Jack’s apartment, Eric had called Dex to make sure he'd swing by the bakery that evening to make sure everything was in order for the morning, using the detailed checklist that Eric had made. Then he'd turned notifications off on his phone, turned music on, and baked an apple pie and a lemon meringue pie with Jack. Doing it with Jack -- well, it took a bit longer, but with all the chirping, casual touches and even brief kisses, it was so much more fun. 

Then Jack had made a simple dinner (“I am an adult human, and feeding myself is an essential survival skill”) with Eric’s help, they’d eaten, and gone to bed early.

Eric had read a text or two, but he'd never even been tempted to check his social media feeds.

The next morning, Eric slipped out of Jack's bed before his alarm went off, went to his own apartment to shower and dress, and was unlocking the door to Sugar ‘n’ Spice at 5. He fired up the oven, slid the first batches of muffins and scones in and opened Twitter on his phone. Then his jaw dropped.

There was a picture of him and Jack walking home from the market, their linked hands clearly visible between them, each holding in bag of groceries in their free hands.

The tweet that had come up in Eric’s feed was a reply to an earlier tweet, asking if that was really Jack Zimmermann of the Falconers, and who was that guy whose hand he was holding?

It looked like one of his regulars had responded, tagging both Eric’s Twitter handle and Sugar ‘n’ Spice.

As Eric worked backwards through the thread, he saw that the picture -- originally posted by the someone whose name he didn’t recognize --had been first posted the night before, and had already been shared several hundred times. More than a dozen people had identified him, either by Twitter handle, place of employment or actual name. There really wasn’t going to be any way to keep this quiet.

So far, at least, there was very little in the way of hate. Curiosity, yes, even intrusiveness, but no one looking forward to their eternal damnation or anything like that.

It was 5:30 a.m.; whom should he call?

“Jack,” he said, as soon as his boyfriend picked up the phone. “I’m sorry to wake you, honey, but before you leave, you should know that someone got a picture of us holding hands when we were walking home yesterday. It’s starting to get spread around, and people are gonna know, so you should be ready for that.”

“OK,” Jack said. 

“I know it’s, well, not ideal with the playoffs starting this week,” Eric said. “I’m so sorry.”

Jack sounded almost annoyed when he said, “No need to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong. Really.”

“OK, then. I'm sorry for being sorry?”

Jack's sigh was perfectly audible over the phone line.

“It's fine, Eric. I'm not mad at you. Just, you're right, the timing isn't great. Have you talked to anyone from the Falcs yet?”

“Jack, it's 5:35 a.m.”

“Right. Well, I'm going to call PR. I'm sure they'll be getting in touch. Sit tight, all right? It’ll all be fine.”

So Eric closed Twitter and kept baking. He resolutely ignored the notifications from his old Samwell Hockey group chat -- just until he knew what he was allowed to say -- and didn't respond to other texts immediately. At 7, he did call his mother, to let her know that a) he had a boyfriend; b) it might be of interest to tabloids or tabloid TV; and c) she shouldn't talk to anyone about it.

“No, mother, I really am happy, and he's wonderful, but right now is not a great time,” he said. 

“You want me to bring him down to visit? Um, I’m not sure he can get away until summer. Fourth of July? I can ask him.”

“Mother, I'm at work.”

That got her off the phone just in time for him to answer Matthew’s call. Matthew started with, “Eric, I had nothing to do with this!”

Having looked at the Twitter users in the thread, he'd already come to that conclusion and said as much.

“Is everything OK there? Are you insanely busy?” Matthew asked.

“Maybe a little busier than usual,” he allowed. “Nurse came in with Chowder, so they're handling the front.”

“You should probably get out there to restock or something,” Matthew said. “Let people see you.”

“Matthew.”

“Kidding! I was kidding!”

“If there's nothing else, I have work to do.”

But the work -- additional muffins, some lemon bars and cookies and mini-pies for later -- would have to wait, because Jamie was calling from the Falc’s PR office.

“I talked to Jack and took a look at what’s out there, and it could be worse,” Jamie said. “Honestly, the picture is kind of sweet.”

“Because we weren’t making out in a grainy photo from a bar?”

“Well, yes, that,” Jamie said. “It’s just so domestic. But really, it’s that you both look so happy.”

“So Jack said you had a plan?”

“We’ll have a plan. What time can you leave the bakery?”

“I usually leave at 2:30, but I could probably get out around 2. Maybe 1:30.”

“Two should be fine,” Jamie said. “Can you get yourself over here? Normally, I’m sure Jack would pick you up, but maybe not today? And maybe not an Uber or anything just yet?”

“I can ask Lardo,” Eric said. “She has a car.”

“When you get here, I’ll sit down with you and Jack and explain what the plan is. It’s still being worked out, and Jack will meet with the whole PR team and management before you get here.”

“He’s not -- ” In trouble was what Eric wanted to say, but it sounded too juvenile. “It’s not -- Y’all’ll be nice to him, right?”

Jamie laughed. 

“No one’s upset with Jack, or with you, Eric,” Jamie said. “We just want to make sure we’re all on the same page. From what Jack has said before, he’s not going to be denying that he’s in a relationship with you. I need to know -- you need to be honest -- is that how you want to proceed?”

Eric breathed in and out, then said, “Yes. Absolutely.”

“OK, then. See you this afternoon.”

The plan turned out to be deceptively simple. First, everyone involved would ignore all tweets, other social media or regular media reports based on the picture from Monday. Instead, Jack would (finally!) start his own Twitter and Instagram accounts (“I think Instagram will really be your medium,” Eric said.) and post a photo of him and Eric. Then he would resolutely ignore the comments (“We’ll monitor them, and if you give us the password, we can block anyone we think we need to,” Jamie said.)

The Falconers’ official account would retweet Jack’s tweet, with a statement of support, and so would Jack’s teammates. Eric, his friends and even the bakery should react, too, Jamie said.

Then, she said, came the hard part for Jack: To connect with fans, to win them over and seem human, to get them on his side, he had to keep posting things -- not usually about Eric -- maybe once or twice a week.

(“Once or twice a week?” Eric said. “People will think you’ve died in between.”)

Jamie looked at Eric. “We’re hoping you’ll help Jack decide what to post and show him how to put an effective tweet together.”

Eric smirked. “I can do that,” he said.

“I know what I want the first picture to be,” Jack said, breaking into the conversation for almost the first time. He fiddled with his phone for a moment and showed Eric and Jamie a photo. It was a selfie Eric had taken of the two of them yesterday, in the park. Eric was grinning into the camera, sun glinting on his golden hair, brown eyes sparkling, cheeks pink in the spring chill. Jack’s face was over his shoulder, a more gentle smile lighting his features, his blue eyes matching the sky.

“Can I use this?” he asked.

“Sure,” Jamie said. “What do you want to say?”

So the picture went out with the message, _I’m a lucky man! @omgcheckplease_

Eric immediately liked and retweeted, with the comment, . _@jackzimmermann1, not as lucky as I am!_

The three months since then hadn’t always been easy. Eric never thought there would be paparazzi staking out his place of work, and he most definitely did not give them free baked goods. Most people were pleasant and kind, if curious, about him and Jack, though not all. He got to experience Jack in playoff mode (“Now I get the hockey robot thing.”) and in post-playoff-loss mode.

But at the same time, there was Jack’s dry sense of humor on Twitter, and Jack’s warm smiles and warmer touches in person, and really just more sweetness and light than any one person had a right to. 

Now that Jack had worked through his post-season slump (and sleep), they were getting ready for the next milestone: meeting Eric’s parents.

**************************

Jack was throwing shorts into a suitcase when his phone rang.

Eric had insisted that long pants wouldn’t be necessary, unless he planned to go to church, and even then, nice shorts -- “the kind that need a belt, Jack” -- would be fine. And it wasn’t an issue anyway, because they were flying down Sunday morning, taking advantage of the Sugar ‘n’ Spice’s usual Sunday-Monday closure. The bakery would remain closed on Tuesday, the actual Fourth of July, and Dex would handle things Wednesday. They were flying home Wednesday night, and Eric planned to be back on the premises at 5 a.m. Thursday.

“Why don’t you give yourself one more day?” Jack asked. “Just to unpack and relax.”

“Says the man who played the last three games of the playoffs with a broken finger,” Eric had said, unimpressed.

“It was the playoffs!”

Jack glanced at the screen before picking up, and was just saying, “ _Salut, Papa! Ça va?”_

At the same moment, he heard the door to his apartment open and Eric call out, “Jack, you home?”

“In the bedroom,” Jack said. “On the phone.”

He heard Eric moving around in the kitchen and turned his attention back to his father, who was going on about real estate, for some reason. Jack knew his father had invested in some properties in Montreal, and his impression was that it had gone well, but it wasn’t a usual topic of conversation.

But his father seemed to be talking about the Providence real estate market.

“Papa, are you trying to get me to invest in real estate too? Because I really can’t --”

“Now that would have been an idea,” his father said. “And yes, you can, while you’re still playing. That what advisors and management companies are for. But if you just want to sit on your money --”

Jack was glad his father couldn’t hear his eyes rolling. As if his father had a thought to spare for anything but hockey during his playing career. Wait -- that was unfair. Papa had always, always paid attention to Jack and Alicia, at least as much as was physically possible during the season. Even when he was away, he would talk to Jack on the phone, be interested in what he had learned in school as well as what he had done in his last hockey game. But that wasn’t the point.

“Wait -- if it’s not for me, why are you talking about the market in Providence?”

“Because I just bought a building there,” his father said. “It’s not very big, but the people I worked with said it generates a nice little income, and will likely appreciate quite a bit over the next few years. Commercial on the first floor and two flats above.”

“So what made you --”

“Aren’t you going to ask what’s in it now?”

“Fine,” Jack said. “I would have asked the address first, but what’s there now?”

“The flats are pretty normal. The commercial space has this sweet little bakery, becoming very well-known,” his father said. “It’s apparently frequented by lots of hockey players.”

“You didn’t,” Jack said.

“I did,” his father said, almost smug. “I plan to introduce myself to my new tenant -- the bakery owner, apparently he lives in Boston and leaves most of the business to a very talented manager -- next week. That is when you and Eric will be gone, right?”

“ _Ouais, Papa,_ but remember Tuesday is a holiday here,” Jack said.

“I know. And I don’t intend to turn this Matthew out on his ear -- although the second Eric wants to run his own bakery, Matthew’s lease won’t be up for renewal. But I do want him to know that I can yank his chain if he tries anything else,” his father said.

“You’re evil,” Jack said. “In a good way. Can I tell Eric?”

“I insist,” his father said.

Eric came in, drying his hands on a dish towel.

“My dad,” Jack said.

“Hi, Bob!” Eric said, loudly enough for Jack’s dad to hear him.

“Is that Eric?” Bob asked. “Put him on. Don’t worry -- you can tell him about the building.”

Eric was making grabby hands at the phone, too, so Jack relinquished it.

“Happy Canada Day!” Eric said. “Y’all doing anything special?”

Eric was quiet for a moment, no doubt listening to Jack’s father tell him about the traditional neighborhood gathering.

“You made the blueberry?” Eric asked. “How did it come out? Great! Uh-huh. OK. Remember the trick with that cake is to pour the icing over it when the cake is still warm. When it’s cooled off, it’ll have a smooth, shiny finish.”

Jack finished packing while Eric chatted to his father, wondering how he had ended up with a life that included his boyfriend (his gorgeous, warm, kind boyfriend) sharing recipes with his father. However it happened, it was grateful.

“Well, thanks, Bob,” Eric said. “I’m sure the trip will be fine. You too. Say hi to Alicia for me.”

Eric was handing the phone back, but not before Jack heard the shift in tone in Eric’s voice. He was definitely nervous.

“OK, Papa, Ouais. Je t’aime.”

He put the phone on the night table and zipped his bag.

“Are we gonna get to a rink there?” he asked. “If we are, I’m going to have to check a bag with my skates.”

“Yeah, I called ahead and we’ll be able to get some ice time Monday,” Eric said. “I’ll have to check a bag too -- I don’t have any skates down there that fit anymore.”

“It’ll be OK,” Jack said. “I can tell you’re nervous. But they asked us to come. They want us there. And you know your parents love you.”

“What if it’s just too much for them, to see us together?” Eric asked. “Because I am not going to stop holding your hand or anything. And that includes at the community picnic. I suppose one good thing about being outed the way we were is no one can say they didn’t already know.”

“Then we decide what to do,” Jack said. “We can get a hotel room, we can come back early. But Eric, I’ve talked to your mom on the phone and on Skype. I think she’s OK with it.”

“There’s also my dad.”

“Who’s also made sure to say we’re welcome.”

“It just feels so weird,” Eric said. “I worked so hard to not let anyone know about me for so long. Then when I did tell my parents, they didn’t want me to come out to anyone else in the family. I’m not sure how to act.”

Jack took both of Eric’s hands in his.

“Act like yourself,” Jack said. “Kill them with kindness. And with a sharp tongue if necessary. But remember you won’t be alone.”

Eric still looked uncertain, and Jack’s felt his heart twist a little.

He was almost certain it would be fine. Suzanne -- Eric’s mother -- had been effusive in her overtures over the phone and over Skype, when Jack happened to be there during one of their calls. His father -- “You can call me ‘Coach.’ Pretty much everyone does” -- seemed phlegmatic, but not unfriendly. And Jack knew that Eric still spoke to his father at least once a week or so, even if it was usually a matter of Suzanne handing the phone to her husband during one of her and Eric’s many conversations.

“I know Mama and Coach will be fine,” Eric said. “I mean, they’ve gotten more comfortable with the idea of me being gay, especially since we got together and I talk about you all the time. But everyone else -- well, let’s just say it was far more socially acceptable to be homophobic than to be gay. But I don’t want to not go and see my family because I’m scared.”

“Come here,” Jack said, opening his arms to Eric.

Eric stepped close, resting his head against Jack’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his waist.

“We’ll be fine,” Jack said. “If it’s too much, we’ll leave. And it will be their loss.”

Jack reached down and tilted Eric’s chin up so he could bend down and kiss him.

“I still think I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” he said when he pulled back. “I get to kiss Eric Bittle.”

“Mmmm,” Eric said. “You’re wrong. I’m luckier. I get to kiss Jack Zimmermann.”

He leaned up to kiss Jack again.

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I get pie.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlookfrightened)!


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